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1 



DOUGLAS JERROLD'S 



SHILLING MAGAZINE. 



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'¥ 



L... 



■^ •/ 



DOUGLAS JERROLD'S 




SHILLING MAGAZINE. 



_ ^ *• • 
^ * • • ^ 
. . * - - 



VOL. VI. 

JULY TO DECEMBER. 



LONDON : 
PUBLISHED AT THE PUNCH OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET, 

AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 



MDCCCXLTII. 



XiOHOOM : 
BBADBUai AKD XVANB, rBIKTIUlf WBITSrUIABI. 









• 



1 1 






. CONTENTS OF ¥0L- VL 



PAGE 

Art-Manufacture Union Proposed snd ConsideTed . . . • • 506 

1 Baby May. ByW. C. Bennett 315 

!{ Carv«d Chests of the Channel Islands, 6ie. By S. Blliott HioiAdns . . 422 

i' Civili8ati<ai of the Lower Orders « 443 

Climax of the Middle Age Mania, the.-^The Exhibitions at WoBtminster . 151 
Club-Crotchets and Cheap Comforts : Bbing Contrilhitions to ihe Whitting- 
ton Club- 
Part I. The Htrase . I ....... 22 

n. The GkiestB 132 

III. The Entertainment 217 

IV. Our Behaviour • . . 343 

Coming Beformationy the. Parts III. fl,nd lY 35, 168 

Converted Man, the. By Frances- Brown • . . . • . 82 

Day in the New Forest, a ••....••. 407 

Democracy in 1'847 21 1 

Dreamer and the 'Worker, tJie. By R. H. Home, Autitor of ** Orion*' 

1, 97, 193, 289, 385, 481 

Dress-Makci's Thrush, liie. By W. C. Bennett . . . . . 613 

Egyptian Coquette, the. By the Author of ** Azeth, the Egyptian** . . 350 

Gallant Glazier, the ; or, The Mystery of Ridley Hall . . . . 517 

Greeting on the Threi^old, the. By T. "Westwood 545 

Infirmary Funeral, an. The Mortal and the Immortal . • • . 131 

Lament of Joanna of Spain, the. By Mrs« Acton Tindall . • • 32 

Last Greek Bard's Song of Homer, the. By Goodwyn l^umby . • . 21 
Lines Written on eeeing a Beggar kneeling on the Pavement to soUcit 

Alms. By E. L. Chatterton 452 

Literary Interchange 371 

Little Gentlefolks; or. Shows of the Season. By Paul Bell . • .141 

November Clouds and Counsels. By Paul Bell 414 

Pauper Funeral, the , • • . 263 

Peace He hath Promised. By Mrs. Acton Tindall . • • . . 506 






VI CONTENTS. 

P16E 

Peep into a Welsh Iron Valley, a 316 

« People Trampled Down, the :" with a Prophecy ..... 201 

Phaoflophy of Facts, the 242 

Pilgrim, the. By Mrs. Acton TindaU 140 

Place of the Fine Arts in the Natural System of Society, the . • . 72 

Pound and Penny Brihery. By Paul Bell 204 

Prince and the Philiheg, the. By Paul Bell 537 

Reviews of New Books : 

Bachelor of the Albany, the. By;the Author of ** The IMcon Family" 470 
Friends in Council. A Series of Readings and Discoune thereon. — 

Book the First , . 280 

Grantley Manor. A Tale. By Lady Georgiana FullertoQ • • . 189 
Guide, to the Birth-Town of Shakspeare, and the Poet's Rural Haunts, a. 

By George May -k* • 287 

History of the Conquest of Peru, with a Prelin\inary View of the 

Civilisation of the Incas. By W. H. Prescott . • . . . 92 
'. History of Servia, a ; and the Servian Revolution, from Original MSS. 
, and Documents. Translated from the German of Leopold Rauke. 

By Mrs. Alexander Kerr 382 

Jane Eyre. An Autobiography. Edited Ly Currer Bell . . , 470 

Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, the. By Thomas Medwin , . . 474 
Mauprat. By George Sand. Translated by Matilda M. Hayes* 

Forming Parts V. and VI. of the Works of Sand . . . .376 
Men, Women, and Books. A Selection of Sketches, Essays, and Critical 

Memoirs from his uncollected Writings. By Leigh Hunt . . 88 
Mind and Matter. Illustrated by Considerations on Hereditary 
Insanity, and the Influence of Temperament in the Development of 

the Passions. By J. G. MiUingen, M.D., &c 478 

Plea to Power and Parliament, for the Working Classes, a. By R. A. 

Slaney , ,96 

Protector, the.. A Vindication. By J. H. Merle D'Aubigne, D.D. , 185 

Prottfg^, the. By Mrs. Ponsonby . . . , , . . 189 

Russell. By G. P. R. James 189 

Sequential Singing Manual, the. Vocal Exercises on the Sequential 

System , ... 91 

Shakspeare Society^s Papers, the« Vol. III. By the Shakspeare Society 476 
Stories and Studies, from the Chronicles and History of England. By 

Mrs. S. C. Hall, and Mrs. J. Foster 284 

Warning to Wives, a. By the Author of « Cousin Geoffry " . . .470 

Season out. of Season, the. By Paul Bell , 45 



fe' 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

Sennon on Univenal Cluuity, a : and What was tHe Fruit i| bore. By 6. 

De Lys 158 

Something about Dimples. Their Use and Origin • . • • • 516 
Something! about Something or another. By William Thom . . .514 

Teatimonials and Tests. By Paul Bell 362 

"The Works" of John Ironshaft. By Silverpen 453 

Thoughts on Visiting Highgate Cemetery 535 

Three Sonnets to a Child. By Thomas Wade 117 

To a Locket. By W. C. Bennett .^ 421 

Tree of Liberty, the. By Goodwyn Barmby . • . , ^. . 326 

Twin Brother, the. By Mrs. Acton Tindall 340 

Voice from the Crowd in a Steamboat, a. By Angus B. Beach ... 55 
What is the Cause of Surprise ? and what Connection has it with the Laws 

of Suggestion ? By Henry Mayhew 547 

Widow-Mother to her In&nt^ the. By Mrs. Acton Tindall • • . 405 

f Wisdomof<<Another Place," the 25j6 

Word to all Anti-Jesuits, a . '. 436 

Word or two on Changes, a 275 

Word or two on Genius, a •••••••• . 224 

Young Men of OUT Times, the. The Usher. By J. Gostick • . .176 

Young Watson ; or, the Riots of 1816. By H. HoU . 59 119, 229, 328 



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m » 



DOUGLAS JERROLD'S 



SHILLING MAGAZINE. 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER.* 

BY THE AUTHOR OP "ORION." 
CHAPTER XIII. 

H&. WALTON IS UMEXPECTISDLT EDIFIED BT AN IRISH FARMER ON THE SUB- 
JECT OF GRASS. — ^MARY AND THE HISS LLOTDS. — ^MECHANICS* INSTITUTE. 
LECIURE ON MESMERISM^ WITH THE EFFECTS PRODUCED. 

" Come in ! *' said Mr. Walton, as be sat alone one morning, 
and was disturbed from a meditation by a tap at tbe door. 
Nobody entered. " Come in ! '* repeated be, raising bis voice. 

Tbe tapping was repeated. 

"Come in, I say!" 

Tbe door still remained closed. Nobody entered. Under tbe 
impression tbat be must bave only fancied it, and tbat nobody bad 
really tapped at tbe door, Mr, Walton was about to revert to bis 
previous train of tbougbt, wben again tbore came a gentle tap or 
two at tbe door« 

" Abem ! " cougbed Mr. Walton to clear bis tbroat. " Come 
in ! " — sbouted be — " confound you I " 

Tbe door opened a little way, and tbe bead of a tall man, witb 
short black bair, black eyes, and a face witb Spanisb features, but 
a mild expression of bumility bordering upon grave bumour, cau- 
tiously peeped into the room. 

" Well, sir ? " said Mr. Walton, after waiting a sufficient time, 
** wby don't you come in ? " 

"Maybe I was only waiting wbile yer bonner tould me to do 

♦ Continued from page 507, VoL V. 
NO. XXXL^-TOL. VI. B 



2 THE DBEAMEB AND THE WORKER. 

that/' replied the man in a deprecatorj voice, with an Irish 
accent, and a muBical, rising inflection. 

" Well — I tell you now to do so. Do come in at once ; don't 
stand peeping at me in that manner.** 

The man came in, apparently very much on his guard not to 
give offence, or commit any impropiicrty. He closed the door 
softly hehind him. 

"Now, sir," said Mr. Walton, *<what do you want with 
me ? " 

" I 'm not after wanting anything of yer honner," said the 
man calmly, and smiling into the crown of his hat. 

" What is your business then ? " 

"It's varkms," implied the man, adraaciiig a paee or two. 
" But me own more spishal business is the sowing of grasses, and 
the general managemint of grass lands." 

" How — ^what is this? " Mr. Walton thought he had not heard 
correctly. He also began to ^1 B&tae trepidation. 

"Oeh its done afthur yarious systuaas — and it's an ilUgaat 
thing when it *a well done. " 

Mr. Walton new felt oofntineed that this stitmge visitor must be 
some insane naii ; so he tlitought it best to hiAowtr him. 

" And kow do you do it ? " said he, foraiig a smile. 

" The sowiag, or the tvatemint f " inquired the m«ii, mildlj, 
but advancing a pace nearer, with brightoiuig eyes. 

" Oh, whichever you like — say, the sowing." 

"I should give lour <» five bwdiels of aujoed grw6 to tlie 
0katate acre, with yer hcamer's li^e; and if ib& feam was naitoly 
prepaared I should select two measures of meadow foxtail^ t^ sanae 
of meadow fescue* hard fescue, and of rough-stafted meadoW'^gsaaa 
—though it's the diwel-and-all dear — and two of ooek's^foot 
grass^ Ukewise. SaHf a measiure '' (here the maa lifted up one 
finger at Mr. Walton, with a grave, warniag air) "Atin^asMasune 
of tall yellow oat-grass ; rather more**^4hougih Patrick Low says 
les»~^f the meadow cat's-tail ; and mere stUl of rye-graes, and 
the erested dog's-tail." 

" Excellent ! " said Mr. Walton, tuvnia^ pide and looking- 
anxiously towards the dooix 

"Nevertheless, yell plaise to obsarve," porsoed the man, 
sluJdng his head slowly, " that the dog*s4ail is the most izpinsive 
of aUr the grasses — barrin' the shea's fescue. Och, whm the 
swate dew's upon the uplands, and sparkles upon the woolly coats 



TBH mSAUSB IffiD IBB ^VPttUOO. 



fli a ipiiole fl«;k of sheep, I aften tUnk— -but that 's AoLther here 
nor tkere, jist now." 

Mr. WaJten cbctvr « long kfoafib, and then 9iud> in his moit 
aBiiaH» manner, thengh widi rather aa vaateadj Toiee :->- 

** Fray, may I infiiire if all these cats* and dogs* grasses can be 
henghi in, this sireet— down stairs, perhaps ? '' 

"I fk> Bet haow^" said the aoa impevtuthaUj. ''Then I 
shoQld give em^thavd of a meanae of i4dte elMrer, the Yeiy same 
of the peeHpeanial red e]e¥er,.and not ^uite so lauoh— for all Curtis 
aajs, who I tmdmrtadce to prove by raiaon is net alflrays rig^t when 
Misthur Sinelair and Deatnis Kelly were wrong, if that eyer hap- 
pencd-'^ae^ ^pike se mndi of the swate vernal grass." 

^''li^auusKefiyisBiypartMaiar fnaad! " exckimed Mr. Wal- 
ton, now becoming desperate. '' Let us go and ask him how he 
desBf' 
^ Sura aad he ^s dead ! " said the bma salemaly. 
Mr. Walton sank back in his chair. 

"He died of the lever^ poor felhyw," eo&tiaiied the man, 
fambliBg about his dress, as if to fiad soaiethisg. " His graacU 
father and mine were both Tipperaiy men, aad so were our fathers 
and mothsrs, save and ezeept aie own mother, who was. of County 
Clare, though I hare lined tjiese t^i years en Dennis Kelly's fann 
inWiehlow.'' 

In has faaibKagrtherman here- dropped a gasdeaer's knife upon 
the floor. Mr. Wakoa, unaye to bear it any longer, started up, 
and saizing the hell-n^, begaa to nng with all has mighA. 
The door opened, aad in hunted Mr. Short. 
*<^What in the woM?"bc^ Mr. Shor^--'' iUi I are you 
Deaaia Ke%, whom I waa to see ? " 

" No, yer honoar, J^teais is dead ; but I am come in* his pkce, 
and I have got a letter of foar sides from- his inconsolable widow, 
afi aboat the fie h >- wh e n I ean find it." And again the man fell 
toaearehing his breast, under his waistcoat. 

A Tery absurd explanation ensued ; during which it was at 
lengdi elieitod tiiat the Irishaian before them was one Cornelius 
Eyan, a very werihy aad wdl-inSsrmed fionall farmer and grazier, 
related to Denads Kelly ; whidii Dennis was one of the tenants of 
liie Irish peer whose estates were managed by Mr. Short, and he 
had be^L selaoted by that geatlemea, on account of his shrewdness, 
to make a journey to tiio coasts of Clare, Gaiiniy, and Waterford, 
to eoQact some pavtteular information ooneeming the Irish 

b2 



. V. 



4 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

fisheries, wHcIi Mr. Short wanted, for reasons of his own.' Onhis . 
way from Waterford, poor Dennis had fallen sick in Wicklow, at the^ 
house of Corny Ryan, and died there, haying first written a long 
letter to Mr. Short, signed with his wife's name, to get her into 
favoui^ " poor soul,*' which Goriiy engaged to deliver in person, 
with all the explanations. He' hlid arrived at Portsmouth — called 
on Mr. Short, who was out/ba't had left word that he should he at 
Mr, Walton's if anyhod/efeae^^and having heen delayed on the 
way, ^Mr.' Ryan had arrived hefore him, and naturally enough, as 
he hfid never" seen either of them, took Mr. Walton for Mr. Short. 

*'But what could possess you," demanded Mr. Walton, with 
some warmth, ''to tell me all ahout your fox-and-sheep's-tail grass, 
and dog's and cat's grass-growing stuff? You never said a syllahle 
ahout fish ! " 

'' Yer honner asked me what my husiness was,*' replied the 
tall descendant of the Tipperary O'Ryans, with a smile, "and 
Aowldidit." 

" Pshaw ! " exclaimed Mr. Walton ; " and to take me for you, 
Short, at a venture, — as a thing of course ! These hlunders are 
invariahle with such messengers." 

" Och, niwer mind it, sir," said Ryan, in a good-hiunoured 
soothing tone ; "sure and you couldn't help it I " 

" The devil take your grass I " shouted Mr. Walton, reddening. 

" All flesh is made of it, anyhow," drily ohserved the farmer. 

Mr. Walton threw himself hack upon the sofa with a provoked 
air, and Mr. Short, having glanced over the long letter with a 
countenance full of impatience and pleasing anxiety, led Mr. 
Corny Ryan out of the room, and they hoth hurried down stairs. 

" Something fresh in the wind," murmured Mr. Walton ; 
" confound them hoth I they have spoiled me for the whole 
morning. I wish Mary would come in." 

Mary had heen out since nine o'clock with Mrs. Bainton, and 
young Bainton, who was a midshipman, on a visit to the Dock 
Yard. They had made an attempt to see Harding, hut without 
effect, as he was at work in the interior of the " Royal Frederick,** 
and the young midshipman did not know where to find him. 
After this, they went across to Gosport to see the hakery. 

Besides the gratification of examining all the "works and 
wonders " of the place, Mary was influenced in these excursions 
hy a feeling of restlessness, from which she had never heen free 
since the conversation with Archer, when they agreed to the post- 






THE DHEAHER AKD THE WORKSB. 

ponement of iheir marriage. It was not 30 much the postpone- 
ment that troubled her, as a growing* sense of uneasiness at the 

.limited nature of their sympatibies. Still she looked forward to 

.her union with Archer as a happy event, and believed it was for 
their mutual happiness. Meantime, she had followed^ his example 
in finding some new occupations for her vjind. Archer jji^d set 
himself the interesting task of assisting^ Ending in his efforts to 
educate himself ; and Mary had tak^*to the study of chemistry 

. and geology, in addition to which, as she was to marry a poor 
poet, she thought it a sensible thing to learn to make her own 
dresses, or the greater part of them. Mary also felt the want of 
an agreeable companion of her own sez. Mrs. Bainton was heavily 
'' serious," like her husband ; not near enough to Mary's age ; 
nor had she liberal principles, or any knowledge beyond local 
gossip and scandal. Mary had therefore written again to the 
Miss Lloyds to press one or other of them to come and pay her a 
visit with as litUe delay as possible. 

This letter had been answered by the elder Miss Lloyd, who 

' accepted the invitation, and was expected to arrive in a few days* 

- The letter, among other interesting accounts of the neighbour- 
hood, informed Mary that they had experienced a loss in the 
person of their friend Rody M'Mahon, who had suddenly decamped. 
He had quarrelled one day with David Williams's son — a heavy 
young fellow of two or three and twenty — on the subject of mut- 

. ton, concerning which the ignorance of Rody and the arrogance 
of young Williams appear to have been equal. They had fought 
in a turnip field, where the quarrel first originated ; Rody was 
the victor ; but being in dread of the reception he should find at 
the farm, he had never returned. The last time he was seen was 
.on the road to Dolgelly. The letter contained a postcript from 
Ellen Lloyd, who sent her kindest love to Mary, with some beau- 
tiful and fragrant leaves, and also a little message for Archer, 
wishing to know if the foxglove seed, and roots of wood-anemonea 
she had given him, were safely lodged for the winter. 

Mary had taken charge of the foxglove seed, and had forgotten 

^to sow it, and Archer, since his return, had had so many trouble- 
some things on his mind that he had never inquired about it. 

. The wood-anemones he liad taken care of himself, and they 
wei^ already safely domiciled in pots at his lodgings. It was too 
late for Mary to repair her omission, as they were now in the 
middle of November ; and, in truth, it was not the kind of thing 



6 TBB IXRflfiAlBBE AUD TSttI ITOtSEXH. 

to gire her much uneaBmeBs. She wAs iher«fore wuprkndy vnbm 
she told Archer, to see that he looked hurt at it. 

Hr. Walton had, as jet, heen. to see nose of the '' sights " of 
Portsmouth. His head was too full of his new plans lor the 
huilding of Associated Homes. He indulged in the conftoBipkitnti 
of all the practical details till resdtes grew out of them of a verjf 
derated, ennobling, and afeo of a retj profitable description. It 
was a novel and delightful thing to realize a large fortone by 
benerolent actions. Still, a man should not be too ambitious ; 
we should set bounds to onr desires ; we should not urn at too 
much ; moderation is the secret of enjoyment. Mr. WaJiton's 
meditations were often made up of writing-^sopy maxims, though 
they dawned upon his mind like new truths to a philosopher. He 
bought of a motto for his carriage— the carriage he int^ided to 
" set up ;" and the first one that presented itself to ins contem- 
plation was " Nolo episcopwri. " 

Now, however, Mr. Walton determined that he really would go 
and look about him a little. He reproached himself bitterly for 
the hundredth lime that he had not been to see Harding. He 
had not ev^i sent a message to him, nor thought of a day for going 
to the dockyard. He reserved that he woi2d do something very 
E^ortly that should make full reparation. Goneequenily, he did 
nothing now, — and his conscience was very much relieved. 

In this easy state of mind — ^free, comlbrtable, sanguine, and not 
particular — Mr. Walton put on his hat, buttoned his coat, and 
began to draw on his gloves, to go out somewhere. While he was 
doing this, Archer entered with Mr. Carl Kohl, to inform him that 
there was to be a Lecture on Geology at the Mechanics' Institute 
that evening, and Archer wished to take Mary, and to invite Mr. 
Walton to aocompuiy them. Mr. Walton at once agreed, adding 
that he had no doubt but his daughter would like to go, of all 
things, as she had jost reoeived several large books from Comer- 
ford's library, and the Literary and Fhilosof^ical Institution, upon 
this very hard study. 

Evening arrived ; Mr. Walton hurried them ail off much before 
the time ; and the party proceeded to the Lecture Room. It was 
half full already ; three or four placu^ds were pasted upon the 
walls, on the purport of which the audience were for the nH)st part 
m discussion. 1^ placards announced the sudden indisposition 
of Dr. Bowles, and that a Lecture on Meemmism would be substi- 
tuted. The room contincied to fill. Nearly everybody gmmUed 



XH£ DRBAKSB AND THB WOBKEB. 7 

^oud at the change of lecturei, andr— Ei^lishman like— remained 
nevertheless. 

Within two rows of Mr. Walton's party they descried Harding, 
who was listening to the earnest conrersation of a man at his side, 
appaientlj a shipwright dressed in his Sunday clothes. Archer 
and Mary were hoth about to make signs of recognition to 
Harding, but Mr. Walton begged them to wait, as he had caught 
a few words of the speaker's voice, which greatly amused him. It 
was evidently nothing private. 

« Why so? " demanded Harding. 

** £h men, its jeust a point o' conscience," replied the other. 

"About what?" 

** Ye ken that our shep, the 'Royal Freederick,' is ca'ad aifter the 
name o' the deceest Deuk o* York. The timmer for her was cut 
oet an' stackit, and she was named in his life before the keel was 
laid doon. Aweel noo, the Deuk is deed an' buried ; an' he deed 
sairly in debt ; an' naebuddy has paid the debts of him. It is 
therefore nae gude that a moaral mon should asseest in reering 
M^ an eedeefeeee like this stately shep to the memory of sic a 
defaulter." 

'< It may be a disgrace to his family/' observed Harding, " but 
it is not a rap to us. " 

*' We are the beelders of a shep to honour his deeoehonourable 



aasne." 



" No ; somebody else does that ; we only build it because we 
are paid sa shipwrights. ' ' 

'' I canna reconceele it to my conscience. I maun soleecet to 
exchange into ane o' the eompanies that work in the ' Leander.' " 

'^ You can do that, Sandy ; but as for your reason, it is not 
worth a shaving." 

« Eh sirs ? the ' Leander ' is a fine piece o' workmanshep — the 
Isi^gest &eegate in a' the Service, Peefty guns, an' twa thoosand 
tons burthen— --equal to the auld seeventy-fours. An', forbye, the 
ports for'ard are constructed upon a new preenciple, so as to fire 
riidit a4ieed <»r across her bows — twa shot, ane frae each side, 
would cross ilk ither at the deestance o' saxty faithoms. That's 
athegither a new principle, lad ! An', forbye» there are seeveral 
leaduag men in her wha ken the cannie feegurin' o' the fractions 
an'deecimals, an' may whiles gie a buddy a F-ee bit of asseestance^" 

''Aha ! this is your point of ccmscienoe. You wish to exchange 
into the ' Leander ' to get some bdp in arithmetic." 



8 THS DEEAHER AND THE WORKER. 

" Aweel noo, John — ^the Deuk o' York's debts are no paid — an* 
I^canna — as a moaral — an' a releegious mon — asseest to build ony 
eedefeece to honour his name." 

" Bravo ! " ejaculated Mr. Walton, so loudly that all the 
audience in front of him turned round, and among them Harding. 
The party had only time to exchange tokens of recognition and 
greeting — Mr. Walton shaking his hand towards him with most 
cordial gesticulations — ^when the Lecturer entered the room, and 
everybody called all the rest of the audience to order. This 
important personage advanced with a slow and formal pace ; 
ascended to the platform, and placing himself behind the desk, 
looked with a vaguely courageous eye over the crowd of heads 
around him. 

The Lecturer was a sedate, sallow gentleman, very tall and 
attenuated, all his clothes appearing too loose and roomy for the 
frame underneath. He had a loug nose, and no chin ; and long, 
weak-looking arms, terminating in large bony fingers. It seemed 
as if all his strength had gone into his hands. 

The Lecturer commenced his discourse with the earliest known 
history of Mesmerism, and then receded yet further back into its 
conjectural history, reaching to the time of Moses, whom he was 
disposed to regard as the first great practitioner of the sublime 
science. In this way the erudite Lecturer occupied three quarters 
of an hour ; and it was endured by the audience with exemplary 
stolidity. He next proceeded to speculate upon the nature of the 
animal-magnetic fluid ; and here, even the most attentive of the 
listeners showed signs of disapproval. Mr. Carl Kohl, though 
unable to speak English, had studied it at the University in Ger- 
many, and could understand pretty well ; and he now shook his 
head. 

The audience was, as usual, miscellaneous : a few merchants 
and government officers with their families ; many small trades- 
men and shopkeepers ; and, in consequence of Harding's exhorta- 
tions, some score of shipwrights and other artisans. There were 
also a few merchant-captains and mates. Most of these latter — 
seafaring and Dock-yard men — and indeed a great many among 
the rest of the audience, now began to utter audible murmurs, to 
the effect that they came expecting to hear Dr. Bowles lecture on 
Geology, and not Mr. Bamfield on Mesmerism. 

** Order " was frequently called. 

Thus admonished, the audience again became quiet, though 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. V 

watches were often pulled out, till the Lecturer at length taking 
the hint, commenced a series of curious anecdotes of the effects 
of Mesmerism, which he felt assured would redeem his lecture 
from any chance of being accounted heavy, and prove highly in- 
teresting both to the educated and "the vulgar." He related 
several miraculous cures, three of which he had himself per- 
formed. The last was the case of a gentleman of Berlin who 
had lost his sight, being struck blind in a thunder-storm, though 
the organ itself did not appear injured externally. He had Qon- 
sidted all the ' first German oculists with no' effect, and had also 
tried the water-cure, but all to no purpose. Eventually this gen- 
tleman had been visited by himself — Mr. Bamfield — the humble 
individual who now stood before them. He had persevered with 
** passes " daily for the space of three weeks, widiout any effect, 
as he thought, and was about to give up the case as hopeless, 
when it was one day accidentally discovered by the patient's wife, 
that although he, Mr. Bamfield, had failed to restore the faculty 
of vision to the proper organ, yet such was the force of the mag- 
netic fluid, and the volition he had sent through the patient, that 
it had carried all before it, and actually caused a transference of 
power, whereby the gentleman was enabled to read with his spinal 
cord. Any unknown book being opened anywhere, and placed 
opposite to the small of the patient's back — he read off a page 
Hke lightning. 

The Lecturer paused. The room was ominously silent, as if the 
people were drawing in their breath. He looked round triumphantly. 

** Lord, what a lie ! " said a loud voice from one side of the 
room. It was Mr. Downs. The whole audience instantly ex- 
ploded in a roar of laughter, mingled with half jocose cries of 
•' Shame ! " " Silence ! " " Order ! " 

" Dass ist not un-possible ! " cried Mr. Carl Kohl, standing up 
and hastily adjusting his spectacles, in some excitement. '* Der 
transference of dee senses — oaf dee see sense, namely, more zan 
any ozer sense— is not un-possible. And dee twice sight — second 
sight, yon call him, mine gentle-mans, on princeeples magnet- 
iques, is also perhaps then yet true.'* 

Another burst of laughter rewarded this luminous explanation 
and defence. 

" No witchcraft! " — "Pooh I pooh! "—"We did not come 
to hear a lecture on Second Sight ! * ' exclaimed several voices. 
Mr. Carl Kohl bowed, and sat down. 



10 liffi I^BSAMBR iJO) THE W<»KB&. 

The ^oom£ted Lecturer, who had retreated a few paceei, now 
caatkusly retaraad to the desk, and again endeavoured to obtain 
a hearing. His miserable eouatenanee eaused some re^aetion in 
has favour. He began by relating another littie anecdote-^-one of 
quite a different kind — E^owii^ the powers of the magnetic fluid. 
A very fi^ng man had been unable to rue imm a ckur, merelj 
by the magnetizer waving his hands over his head ; and the same 
fttrong man, on b^ng allewed to rise, and told to ekajxd firm, and 
upright, was cempeUed to sit down, in spite of all his efforts, 
merely by the same waving of the hands thus ! And this might 
he done with any number of m^. 

Up stood a man at this ! — ^then three more — ^then some ififtam 
•talwwt sUpwrigkte and son-burnt sea-faring men-and aU oon- 
fronted the Leotwer with faees red and convulsed with restcabed 
marriment. 

'' Gentile-'mans ! '' exclaimed Mr. Carl Kohl — then stepping 
ehofft, he bent down his head, and said hurriedly, '< I pray you, 
my sir — Mr. Archer — I begs it of you. It is not right aat 
we allow an infant science to be strangle, or make a foal in hex 
<»*adle9 beoose i^e haf a disastrous friend, zare ! '* (pointing to the 
Lectuirer) ^'and a bad pokesman '* (pointing to himself) ''here ! " 

Archer hesitated. He did not much relish the office. 

« I !-^I ! — a disastr<»is friend ! '* ejaculated the Lectiurer, who 
was evidently getting wild with nervousness at the array of men 
with red faces, standing up in frooi of him with an air of ludicrous 
defiance. He endeavoured to proceed, but his voice gurgled and 
died away, so that he only gave a gasp. 

"Poor fellow! " wluspared Mary, pressing Archers hand-— 
** he is very foc^sh ; but do try and heip him out of this painful 
position." 

Arch^ rose thoughtfully. 

" Orda: ! " said Hardifig in a deep voioe^ and with an earnest face. 

*' Alkw me a few words, gentlemen," said Archer, *' uid let us 
fkot forget that ladies are present. I cannot think you right in 
acting -thas in a room devoted to the acquirement of knowledge ; 
neither do I wish to defend everything that our friend the Lecturer 
has said. But perhaps we have all been rather hasty." 

This was chiefly addressed to the men who were atandii^ up 
to dauot aotd challenge the powers of magnetism. They all sat 
domtt qwtiy, siiiMiued by Archer's pacificatory voice and quietude 
of manner. 



'^ In aU ages of ikm world," oontmudd Ardker, " Ukase kare 
been wonders-^iwraeiikMiB t^ifigs, wliich were 4)a imilj faets as 
the hardest roolffi that aoe liewed lor the temples a&d palaeea-*- 
jet yreare as waooeiiiKkabld to the oDdmarj leanMed men of the 
tiney as to the ignoraai. Tlie conse<|<i«ftce was, that the eotat- 
ma^kaaitt, the •recognised wise men, the bigots, or those in power, 
^iisew sKk men as Bogeo: Bacon and Galileo into prison — burned 
necLat the staka — or hsoted theu out of their dweUiii^-flaoes. 
In madem tinaes ihe resistance to aU new and imfkortant thiqgs is 
amiaged m a less Tioieitt way — hj laughter ehie%» by denuncia- 
tion, BieknaineSy eontempt, or utter neglect. Yet the very sane 
deridcrs will denounce those who acted like thttaksdves in former 
^mes ecBoeraing things then incredible, but now proved beyond 
ail daaht , and in coaamon knowledge and practice. Let us 
be carefuL We may do great wrong to truth, without knowing 
tt. We may sometiaft^ be too hasty in thinking ourselves wise ; 
and too ready to deny the existence or good of a thing, merely 
beeanse we do not understand it. Let us reeollect how the in- 
Tentors of stoain4>oats, and of gas-lamps, were treated — how 
laughed at, sad rained. Let us also observe the £ar greater 
wNmdcES actuaUy going on at this time by ssesns of ^ctricity. 
Whai is eteotricky ? Nobody knows. What is magnetism ? 
No^dy knows. It is said to be a fluid. It may be bo. It may 
be a new sense — one that receives and transmits withoHt the in- 
terveution^of any known organ of esAiact — ^it may be the essemse 
of all the isenses — « spioitAial ix^xisation. It canaot be nonsense, 
I think, because its effects (apart frota all larick, folly» and.impos- 
t»re) are something wonderful. Bat what it is we know no moere 
than what electricity is, although ibe e^Eeets of the latter are as 
palpaye as they aa?e mirae^iloas. No one can say they are 
not so." 

'^ /csA ! " said a voice. *' They are no^ so ! " but tke speaker 
was Mlenced by a general cry of order. The Lecturer biMioned 
np his coat — ih&i hastily unbuttoned it. 

'* Nobody," proeeeded Archer, ''can truly say that electricity 
is not wonderful^ because he may at any time go and see its 
effeets, and fe^ i^e truth, too, by a sueeesason of shocks at jBve 
mles' disteiDoe, if he pleases. But what this subtle flwd is, no 
one lias any concepticm.*' (Again the Leetioer rapidly buttcmed 
amil nnbafctatted ias cowL) " We are siwTOijnded by wonders/' 
aaid Asthor* '' Why does a seed grow ? There is the saed*-- 



12 THE DB£AMEB AND THE WOBKEB. 

the earth — ^the moisture — and the sun. - ' The rest is all a mystery. 
Let us he cautious, then, how we attempt to crush any new prin- 
ciple of science or philosophy, which displays any signs of com- 
prising some wonderful reality or truth, merely hecause the world 
knows nothing of the means by which these things are effected, — 
and because none of those most learned in the world's best know- 
ledge are able to inform us. Among these I of course include 
the discoverers and practitioners themselves, who may know no 
more of the cause of the effects they produce than the most 
ignorant of us. We should give Nature fair play, and let Man 
proceed. On the other hand, we should not rush forward too 
fast, and heedless of all circumspection, — ^because, if animosity be 
for a long time disastrous to a new principle, an injudicious and 
unscrupulous advocate is far more so. But all the allowances for 
sincere—" 

The Lecturer coidd bear it no longer. *' /, a disastrous 
friend ! — a heedless and unscrupulous advocate ! " exclaimed 
he. '' Do you mean to say, sir, that I am myself ignorant of 
what I have so long given up my life to study and comprehend 
in all its noble relations ? — ^that I am one of those sincere and 
foolish practitioners who do injury to a great cause ? — I, who have 
fought the battle of the mighty Mesmer, and been the apostle 
of his fluid these seven years and a half, through good report 
and evil report, through golden streams of fame, and through 
the bitterest and most brackish floods of storm, and have put 
down — put down, I say, and kept down — with a waive of my 
hand, crowds of antagonists far more respectable and formid- 
able than the crew of brutal shipwrights, and caulkers, and 
riggers, who just now stood up to defy me ! " 

As the Lecturer, now perfectly breathless, gasped out these 
last words, he seemed quite carried beyond all self-government, 
and shook his open hands wildly over the heads of the audience 
in front of the desk, as if to cast some magnetic spell upon 
them. He probably did not intend this in his mind, but he 
certainly did intend it in sensation. At all events, the action 
presented exactly this appearance. In a moment three glazed 
hats whirled through the air at him. One, which was flung by 
a shipwright with his left hand, the right being pressed down in 
the crowd, spun off sideways, and hit the full-length portrait of 
WiUiam the Fourth (dtessed like a naval officer); the other two 
flew straight at the Lecturer's head, and the hard rim of one 






THE BEEAinSB AND THE WORKER. 13 



of them struck lum upon the nose. The nose was large and soft, 
and responded as such organs are accustomed to do upon these 
painful occasions. It streamed over a white neckcloth all down 
a long white waistcoat. The Lecturer stood as if paralysed, 
presenting the appearance of a penguin who has received a shot 
in the head, and stands up forlorn and motionless upon a point 
of rock for a moment, before he falls into the sea. 

With a simultaneous motion, Archer .and .'Harding sprang 
forward to the assistance of the poor Lecturer, followed imme- 
diately by Carl Kohl. Two or three men were rolled over in 
their passage, and a lamp was broken ; while a friend and» 
disciple of the Lecturer's, having possessed himself of two. of. 
the glazed hats, called loudly for the police, in order to iden- 
tify the owners.- A general tumult and scramble ensued. 
Harding and Archer, with their coat-sleeves torn in shreds, 
leaving Carl Kohl struggling underneath the Jecture-desk, 
which had been upset, hurried off the Lecturer, whose coat- 
tails were torn off close ''to the quick," and his nether habili- 
ments indescribably, rent behind, after the fashion originated by 
a certain disorderly and light-headed individual celebrated by 
schoolboys under, the cognomen 'of, Gideon Gout. They bore 
him safely to the side; of Mr.* Walton, and they then endea- 
voured to make • a passage out for the whole of their party. In 
their efforts .Archer was thrown. down between two oak forms ; 
Harding instantly left the poor Lecturer, and rushed to Archer's 
assistance. Then Mary,' together with two other ladies who had 
screamed to them for protection, were pressed close against the 
wall, and Archer and Harding struggled to their rescue. Then 
Mr. Walton had one arm jammed between two men's shoul- 
ders, and Carl Kohl arrived just in time to help him ; then 
Harding floundered down, . dragging two or three opponents 
with him ; and this brought Sandy Morrison to his side — ^who, 
having lost one shoe, fought like a fury ; and finally, as they 
all emerged panting and wild with heat into the cool November 
air outside the doors, the discomfited Lecturer was carried 
safely out after them in the relenting arms of John Downs. 



14 TIOI SEBAinK AKD THB W08&BB, 



CHAPTER XrV. 

▲PP&BBSNSIONS OF THE NEW BUILDING-FIRIL — ^MB. WALTON's CHASGS OF 

BB8IDENCB. — HE ENGAGES HA&DING TO BUILD A BOAT FOB HTV. 

AERITAL OF MI89 LLOTD.-^P&ATl's BVN-SHOF. — Mft^ WAtTCHf ABTIOBB 
HABDIMO ON flBUP^HimCATION. — MSL BROBT'S muUy^/OY ON IKE lUSH 
FISHEBIES. 

Mr. Ssobt and Mr. B«iii«(m called on Mr. Walton iiie mom- 
mg after tiie lecture, to inqoife, as diey said, if lue and Misft 
Walton bad been burt in tbe disgraceful scene wliicb bad oo* 
ctmred. Tbej themselves were not present ; but it was ^kut 
talk of the wbole town. In eTory acooimt tiwj bad beard, tke 
name of Mr. Carl Eobl was coaspicaoas, no* so mui^ on a8«> 
cotmt of bis extraordinary '^ English " as for has advoenoy of 
tbe ftunilty of "second sigbt/' and bis entboaiasni for the 
introdttction of tbe black art. Tbey all agroed that it 
tmiy an alarming sort of tbing to be asoociated in any w»y 
mth a man wbo was tbe avowed fnend and ahanpMm ^ 
Pitches ibat bad been burned at tbe stake, MaA wbo publiely 
professed to believe and to bave seen impossilbiifties. As for the 
Blddress made by Areber to the sadioice, it was not maeh 
better ; but then he was known to be a dreamer and etttbrniaat, 
and wbait else could be expected of a man wbo wrote pootey? 
MoreoTer, be was not one of tibe new boilding-finn. B«t what 
ootdd be said of an arcbitect, and one about to ei^ge in ft 
totally new sort of project, in which tbey woukl need odi the 
fiiends tbey conld possibly baye, and ovgbt to giro no bandla 
f^ enemies or scoffers — what would be said of an architect of 
tiie b«drdings for Assoeia1»d Homes, wbo could aosort that there 
W^N« organs of rision in tbe i^^al marrow ? It was a tbi^ 
not to be risked ; and they all agreed that Mr. Carl Kjohl 
should be no architect of th^rs, and that this determiaatioii 
sboald be communicated to him in a d^ieate way by Mr. 
Walton, at tbe earliest opportunity. At tbe same time» tbey 
T^fi^e aSaxions to offer him their assistance in any otbar course 
to which' be might apply his talents. 

Mr. Carl Kohl drily received the intelligence of the ** sus- 
pended operations '* of the new firm, " in consequence of certain 
errors in calculation they had made,'' and offered no further ob- 
servation than by a philosophic lift of tbe shoulders. As for 
any assistance in other lines, be expressed himself much 



THE BRSAlfiSR Am THfi 1f<»eKEB. 15 

obliged and grateftil, but said that he believed he conld manage 
pretty well without help, as he was rapidly improving in his 
Imowledge of the English language — a fact which no one but 
himself had yet discov^;^. He treated the whole matter wi& 
perfect ease and good temper, and even accompanied Mr. 
Walton in a walk to Southsea to look at a furnished cottage 
whkh Mr. Widton had resolved to take for the winter. 

This cottage Mr. Walton moved into a few days after. It 
was near the sea, and the liiought suddenly struck him that an 
oeieask»ial' sail in his own boat would be an agreeable pastime for 
aav hour when the weadier was uncommonly fine ; and that, if he 
engaged Harding to build the boat, it would be a nice opporto- 
nsty for making him some small return for the great services he 
had rendered them during the shipwreck in Wales. Mr. Walton 
aJBCOrdingly sent a friendly message to Harding, requesting to see 
hhn at hmch next morning during the Dock-yard dinner-time. 

Mr. Walton liked his new residence very much. It was a 
hflrndsome and commodious cottage, well Airnished, - and with a 
good look-out towards the sea. Me passed a very pleasant hour 
wi1& Harding, who arrived at the time specified ; and after a 
Htlie preliminary conversation on Canada, the shipwreck, and their 
visit, their whok talk was of boat-building, rowing, and sailing, 
com&snang which things Mr. Walton said he spoke with great 
diffidence, as his studies had never led him much in those direc- 
tions. He also consulted Harding upon the best method of fixing 
a large brass telescope to the window-sash, or sill — or inside the 
window, «id to turn upon a pedestal screwed to the fioor. Ho 
in%» aware that the telescope was very large— nearly twice aa 
hatge as Mr. Carl Kohl had advised ; and Archer had asked him 
only this morning if he intended to shopt the moon ; but these 
very clever gentlemen, who knew everything, were often very odd 
in their fancies, and wore not fit to decide upon the tastes of other 
people. A large brass telescope gave an air of style to a small 
eottage fronting the sea ; and, besides enabling any one who took 
an interest in mercantile transactions to observe the coming and 
going of ships at a distance, a gentleman could also watch his 
own boat dancing upon the waves, or riding at anchor. Harding 
was exces^vely amused with all this, and did not attempt to 
suppress his smiles. In the end, Harding agreed to build the 
boat, and Mr. Walton clapped him upon the shoulder, and called 
him a fine fellow. 



16 THE DBEAMEB AND THE WORKER. 

That same eyening the elder Miss Lloyd arrired,- and was 
received with great pleasure by them all. She brought no fresh 
news from Wales, except that her sister Ellen had been yerj 
much out of health lately ; Ellen had, however, sent Mary and 
Archer several little presents — sketches of scenery — a prayer 
from Goethe, which she had set to music — and some little articles 
of dress, which she requested Mary to wear on her wedding-day. 
. Mary was but too glad to have a companion like Miss Lloyd, 
to whom she at once communicated the postponement of her 
marriage, laying it chiefly to the account of the difficult position 
they were pkced m, from the adverse feeling of their relatives on 
both sides ; but touching only slightly upon such discrepancies as 
existed between Archer and herself, in matters of private feeling 
and differences of opinions and tastes in certain things. 

Miss Lloyd having inquired very kindly after Harding, a party 
was fixed for the next day to go to the Dock-yard. This party 
was increased by the proposal of several of their friends to accom- 
pany them, including Mr. Carl Kohl, who had contrived to obtain 
the permission requisite for foreigners. It was composed of Mary 
and Miss Lloyd, Archer, Mr. Walton, Mr. and Mrs. Bainton, 
Mr. Carl Kohl, Mr. Short, and Mr. John Downs. They went 
accordingly ; visited the " Royal Frederick," where Harding was 
at work, and were taken by him all over the main deck — ^the only 
deck laid down upon the beams at this time. 

** Fine, stout, famous, matchless, wooden walls of Young 
England!" exclaimed Mr. Walton. " Who says om' maritime 
glory is upon the decline, unless he means that such glories as 
these are upon an inclined plane— eh, Bainton ! — ready to slide 
down into the water. Here 's a ship ! How many guns do you 
say, Harding ?*' 

** A hundred and ten." 

"And tonnage?" 

** Three thousand and ninety -nine tons." 

"Sir William Symons the builder, did you say — the inventor 
of the top-heavy — ^what do you call it ?" 

"Peg-top keel" 
*^ " Here *s beams and bulwarks of the nation ! " proceeded Mr. 
Walton ; " here's a deck ! (stamping about upon it) ; here 's a 
floor, where elephants might dance to the roar of lions ! What 
weight of metal — what guns will she carry upon this deck — ^forty- 
eight pound carronades, as of old, I suppose ?" 



THE DSEAMEB AND THE WORKER. 17 

"We have not heard," said Harding, "hut carronades have 
heen disapproved hj naval officers for years past. As for the 
gons on this deck, they will he long sixty-eights, I have not the 
least donht." 

«I very mwh douht it !" remarked Mr. Downs. "Why do 
you say she will have long sixty-eight pounders, if you don*t know 
the fact V 

** Because," replied Harding, pointing downwards, " the deck 
of such a ship as this is ususJly four inches thick, and of fir ; 
whereas this deck is four inches and a half, and of Dantzic oak. 
Therefore it is intended for very heavy metal." 

" Did you measure it ? How the devil do you know all this to 
half an inch V 

" I laid the greater part of the deck down myself." 

** Did you ? I didn't see you. Ahem ! You 're a capital fellow, 
Harding. You gave me a hlack eye with your elbow at the 
lecture-room the other night." 

The paity left Harding in considerable glee at this encounter 
with Mr. Downs, and then went to visit some of the machinery 
works. When the dockyard dinner-bell rang, the party adjourned 
to " Pratt's," in order to get a little refreshment. 

Pratt's shop in Portsea is famous for hot plum-buns at limch- 
tide, the largest of the class ever made for a penny. Independent 
of these buos, the visitor can regale himself with any kind of 
groceries, "cakes and ale," or stronger cordials if he feels dis^ 
posed. Here the party, we have previously named, now assembled ; 
and presently there were placed in a row three tumblers of water, 
with three hot plum-buns ; one tumbler of sherry-and- water, with 
a slice of plum-cake ; two captains' biscuits, with nothmg " to 
moisten them ;" a raspberry tart and a glass of usquebaugh ; a 
pint of port wine with plum-cake ; and a tumbler of hot rum-and- 
water, with a square of gingerbread — all of which the reader will 
probably find no difficulty in distributing to the respective parties. 

Archer and Carl Kohl listened to Mr. Bainton's elucidation of 
the last improvement in one of the most complicated of the engines 
they had been examining ; Mr. Downs took Mrs. Sainton aside, 
and endeavoured to show her that her husband was totally mis- 
taken in his ideas — most of them ; while Mr. Short engaged the 
ear of all the rest of the party with a long tirade against the Irish 
fisheries, as they were at present mismanaged, or neglected, — the 
whole of which discourse he particularly addressed to Mary, as if 

HO. XXXI. — VOL. VI. c 



tie wefe anxious to impress ber with the impoHaiiQe of the tuhject 
mar^ than anyhodj else,-^anjd, to ssqt the truth, his attentieiMt 
t0. her were of rathejr a mari^ed kind, at ime», wh^a Arch^'e 
back happened to be turned. 

I«. the eyeniag,, afteir the Waltons had reigned hoiBio, Harding 
9fim6^ to the cottage at Southsea to begin the fitting up of a littie 
chaise-house into a boat-house, as Mr. Walton wished his boat to 
he JMlt under his 99m '^roof/' that he nd^t see it from daj to 
daf ^'growing under his oi«rn eye." Wbem Harding arrived^ 
however, Mr. Walton took him afside* rather foygteriously, into 
another room. 

'* I am aware, Handing, '* said he» *' of the geiieral tenor of the 
advice that our friend Archer has been giving you on the subjeel; 
of self-educatioi^. Se h«fi spoke«k o| it to my daughter ooce or 
tvioa wlwJb I waa reading the newspaper, I am nmdi interested 
in yott— as indeed I ought to he — and I have something to say 
about all this. Mr. Archer is, no doubt, a highly-informed man 
tn^iif^or sort of mind, and vaided talents-^writes poetry, and 
ijft that, and therelnre, very natunaBy, recomfci^ads you to x^sA 
il. Biut he haa w>> kftowledge of the praotieal business of the 
world, and what kjnd of iialonnAtion would be* moat serviceable te 
jwk in your atatioR of life. He no doubt recommended yon to 
l-ead Shakspeare and Mr, Pope, and to have a touch at MiUooa 
em SbudayB. Stuff ! --I don't rn^m to say that those writers, are 
*a|aff '-rrGod forbid-r-very good stuff of com^se they are, in their 
ii^a^l^rr-bnt that they mre all nensonae and no use for i^ou^ my boy. 
|b» Archer has also, I know, confused you vei^y mn^ on th^ 
ipiib^t of history— i-trying to proive to you .tiiat the French Jkyf^ 
hition was eondueted through all its stages by very respectable 
m^Ei, whose enthasiasm carried them a little too far sometimes, 
wA that Bnonapairte was an angel in di^uise, Wat Tyler too— i- 
af eonrse he told you that Tyler was a very intelligent, diainterested^ 
paii^^ic bkeksmith, a model for aU modei^n working-men to form 
themselves by ; and that our History of England was full of lies 
eoaooniing all these good Tylers, and Jack Straws* and Jack 
Oades, and Old Nolls. iSome lies, no doubt, have been told aboDkt 
att these men, and the events th&t surrounded them-^— bnt so hav« 
HieB been told about you and me, sometimes— ^nd who the deuce 
ean help that ? No — ^read your Bible and Psalter— read ^om» 
]9»toiry of Sngland, and londley Murray's ' English Grammar *-^^ 
avoid politica^stiii^ tbe four first ndee of .aarittohetlci simple and 



<iQii4[iiOiu^d^--jo^ write a good bold roi|Bd hand, l«ani al^o to write 
a goffi miming haad^ — wKen you many, read Cobbett's ' Cottage 
Mcsojwmjf* anS * Cottage Gardener,' if you have a garden ; and 
wk^n you want a little recreation in the book way, read Dihdin's 
&fm8^ the ' Little Warbler,' ' Joe Miller ' — w, if you want to get 
up a olioice hit of elegant riding to make a ehow with, on great 
oeeaaions, take a page <»* so of * Harvey's Meditatiens,' and the 
'.Bufield Speaker.'" 

Satdii^ thanked Mr. Walton for his adviee, with as good a 
grace as he could, though with difficulty suppressing a smile ; 
and when Mr. Walton pressed his hand in a fatherly manner and 
took Jteaye oif him for the night, that wiMrthy gentleman felt as if 
he had do^e Qarding a signal service which would last him to the 
end of his days. But when he re*entered the room, and saw 
Archer talking to his daughter, so innocent of all knowledge of 
th0 mischief he had been doing to many of his fine theories, Mr. 
Walton's conaeience pricked him lest he should have been acting 
racier treaeherously ; he therefore relieved his breast by telling 
Archer what he had done. To his amazement^ Archer said, 
** Oh, never mind ! "-^as if it were of no consequ^noe. ^* Ob» 
oevermind!" 

It has been said that Mr. Short was very talkative, if not 
eloquent, in Fratt*s bun^shop this morning. Whether he had 
talked himself into a mere sanguine state of mind than usual on 
^e subject of a new scheme which he had been digesting for some 
time, or that he had taken a little more of his favourite old port 
thyan usual, certain it is, that when he was half undressed that 
Xiight, he sat in his dressing-gown and slippers upon the edge of 
bis bed, opposite the £re, in which he always indulged through 
the winter months, and thus soliloquised : — 

<< Yes — ^there is more prosperous virtue in fish than in bricks 
and mortar. Associated Homes for the middle-classes is a good 
s^culation--^I think it is^^if the time is ripe for such things, and 
that there are also enough people now ready, willing, competent, 
and resolved to begin. * Ah, there 's the rub,' as Macbeth says, 
or, at least, Shakspeare. I don't feel quite safe in this ventiu'e. 
At any rate we most wait a little. How my ancles ache with 
walking about on those dockyard stones ! — and my left boot put 
me in an agony once or twice this monung. 

" To commence our operations by using the d^gos of a half- 
mad German ardiitect, who believes in magic, wid cannot spc^k 

o2 



20 THE DREAICER AND THE WORKER. 

BIX words of English, will never do. But a fishery on the coast of 
Ireland somewhere— tAaf indeed, if well established, and well con> 
ducted, would be a rare spec ! I must try and move Walton and 
Bainton to join me in this. I have got a chilblain too, I find — 
duds ! how it stings ! — I think they will. Perhaps I may even 
persuade them to take a trip over to Dublin with me. What a 
fine woman that Mary Walton is ! — fine person, shapely and com- 
plete — handsome face — instructed mind ; has some wild radical 
notions about the improvement of things, and popular progress — 
but unmarried women must have something to think about. AH 
put into her head by that pale, briefless-barrister-looking Archer. 
Don't think she cares very much for him. I fancied she looked 
several times at my new waistcoat and diamond shirt-pin. 

" If I can persuade these men, now — and Bainton, I can see, is 
already taking it quite into his mind — ^and if we can succeed only 
on one fishing coast, I shall lose no time in establishing the very 
same thing on two or three other coasts, and thus obtain a 
monopoly. First, we will begin with the Wexford and Waterford 
coasts — ^pick out a nice place — and there are several, if the letter 
of Dennis Kelly's widow is worth anything. Then, the letters I 
have received this morning as to the coast of Clare, show that 
very much is to be done there — not close in shore, where the 
Paddies fish, but two or three and twenty miles out, in the deep 
sea fisheries — the south-western banks, which the Paddies seldom 
dare venture out to, in their poor, patched bean-shells of canoes. 
There we shall net 'em ! — cod, haddock, whiting, ling, mackerel, 
herrings, pollock, plaice, turbot — ha ! — ^gurnet, green and red, 
bream, mullet, salmon, with loads of crabs and lobsters ! My 
left boot must be eased over the little toe — I 'm d— d if I can 
bear it ! 

*' But we will be careful and gradual — wise as — not timid though 
— ^as Cato — skait ! I have taken a glass too much this evening, 
I begin to think. My head and ears bum, and my tongue is dry 
and furry. A vile cigar, that. I must tell old Walton all about 
my new scheme, without loss of time. It is now well matured in 
my mind. Bainton will certainly come into it. I shall easily per- 
suade Walton to join us ; — he and I shall make money together 
— often dine together — we shall talk over old times, and I shall 
not recollect any of those things which show that I am nearly 
fifty-two— we shall soon be inseparable — I shall turn him round 
my finger, and perhaps marry his daughter. Who knows ? " 



21 



THE LAST GREEK BARD'S SONG OP HOMER. 

BY GOODWYN BARMBY. 

Bring me, boy, the Samian flask ! 

Sound thy flute beneath those trees^ 
While at ease my limbs I bask 

Where the myrtles woo the breeze ; 
Bring the tablets, ink, and reed — 

Homer sang here, ages past. 
And old Echo's grots may lead 

To his fount of song at last. 

Bright the blue Egean flows ! 

Tempe's vale is rich with bloom ; 
Scented Hybla sweeter grows ; 

And Ilissus hallows gloom ; 
But though blue the skies above, 

And though green the earth below, 
Have they brought us, in their love, 

father Homer's tuneful flow ? 

Fair the Academic groves ! 

Life-like statues there we see ; 
Marbled Virtues, Graces, Loves — 

All but motioned symmetry ! 
Yet not statues, but true men 

Still we want, and singing pray, 
Bring us Homer back aeain ! 

Such may live to swell his lay. 

Proud the dames of Athens move. 

Lone in wealth and slaves of state, 
Listless in the terraced grove. 

Poor in love, and weak in hate ; 
Stately formed, and decked with art. 

Jewelled though their armlets be, 
Are they worthy Homer's heart — 

He who sung Penelope ? 

Have we women 1 Have we men 1 

Men we have, and women too ; 
Look upon them once again, 

Scarce the different sex you know. 



22 CLUB-OBOTGHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 

Men we have for whom the helm 
Weighs too heavy on the brow ; 

Did such aid, in Homer's realm, 
Achilles* wrath or Hector's woe ? 

Barbaric hordes press on our soil, 

And swords are pointed not to save ; 
In ease inglorious is our toil — 

We have no strength to earn a grave. 
The bard has fallen on sad dark day«, 

And Homer will not leave- the tomb, 
When Life has lost its crown of bays, 

And Death's urns tell no noble doom. 

Then break the tablets, break the reed : 

Though Greece is fair in earth and sky, 
Though rich the Marathonian mead 

With blood whose fame can never die, 
In vain we strive as bards to sing, 

Unless we first can show us men ; 
The gods no inspiration bring, 

Nor send us Homer back again. 

But though we to barbarians fall, 

Like temple to the bats a prey, 
I have one hope — the last of all — 

It is in our old Homer's lay : 
While it survives, our Greece will live. 

The land of a most glorious lyre, 
And unborn laurelled poets give 

Our prince of bards a crown of fire ! 






CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS: 

BBINO 

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE WHITTINGTON FUND. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

If people's legislation was confined to themselves alone, one 
might be amused rather than disturbed at the view of life takent 
by certain worthy and unworthy characters, who seem theoretically 
and practically resolved to carry out "the greatest misery 
principle." " We live in a vde of tears," they say, " and, there-^ 
fere, you shall wipe your eyes on clouts as coarse as sail-cloths. **" 



An0tiier set, it is true, deny the beauty <nr the vifttte of eyes beings 
wi]}ed at aU. But 'vrilh ^rsons so far gone in the scienee of 
s^-totpment) we hare no more to do, than With the hook-swingera 
of IiMiian FanatteisBi. They are hardly likely to establish a 
church or a colony in this UtUitarian Bhgland <^ oui^s, where 

EVerythmg is done by steamy 
And men are lulled ^th powder. 

I^he moderate class of grumblers and objectors afe inore trou- 
Uesotne, not to say formidable { since they l^resdnt prejudicidd 
which are tainted with pliMisibility, and paralyse the timid With 
wamingS) and half-reasons ; or they a^e for " waiting by the 
road-side, ft^m a sense of dnty," so long, that the proper time fer 
a start is passed. Time was, when they raised their yoices 
against Education of the People. Anarchy, they preached, Wttt) 
to come in with the Alphabet : the hombier closes, taught to 
read and write, wotlld, thencefbrth and for oyer, declare against 
work : help themselves to the meat, clothes, and fire of thdr 
betters, and when all was eaten, worn, and burned out, we were, 
gentle and simple, to be all of us hopelessly ruined ! Well, ten 
times more has been done, than It roused their holy fears to hear 
of ; and still, it is only now for the first time clearly seen, that 
England is merely at the beginning of a progress!^ ahd comprid- 
hensire Educational movement; from which, nevertheless, ruin 
will not accrue. Now, they seem disposed to growl and groan, 
because of certain plans for the diffusion of intellectual enjoyment, 
phyncal comfort, and honourable intercourse, which are working 
their way through the under-currents of society. Their talk iS 
of "privileges.'* They profess to be unedey fot the future of 
Science and Scholarship, because of the difiusion of cheap lit^a?- 
tnre. They sneer, with a well-managed sort of siad contempt, at 
the imaginary picture of Art in the Kitchen^ and Music in the 
Pcmtry under the stairs. Counting-houses, to please them, mnst 
be the airless and cobwebbed holes, in which no clerk can be 
distracted over his ledger-work, by the waving of a tiiee-branch* 
or a sight of the sunshine. Shops are to be kept wisely open till 
bed-time, lest the shop-boy should enter the labyrinths of D&ncing 
or the seductions of Music, or aciflire ideas above his station^ by- 
light or heavy reading. The relief from small, grinding, domestic 
cares, which co-operation, judiciously administered, might be 
made to furnish, is to be discountenanced, on the original hypo- 



24: CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 

thesis of respecting the sanctity of home bj maintaining such 
" strong yet tender ties'* as the smell of fll-cooked food — the 
steam of wet linen — ^the loaded atmosphere of small chamhers 
perpetually inhabited. Things are to go on as Miss Edgeworth's 
Farmer Goodenough wished. They hold comfort, luxury, and 
permissible amusement in as holy a horror as that with which the 
Second George regarded " Boetry and Bainting,^^ 

Perhaps — ^to be fair — the sanguineness of persons ** given to 
move '* may have, in part, exasperated their stupidity. In the 
matters, for instance, which I am about to treat, the cry of 
''Clubs" has been mixed up with all manner of extraneous 
matters — to the mystification of those sybilline leaves, the Pence- 
Table and the Ready-Reckoner. There have been visions of this 
grand staircase, and the other ceiling, painted in encaustic (by 
some hairy Herr from foreign parts, or some noticeable native 
talent) ; of damask curtains, true Opera-colour — ** houton d'or,^^ 
and velvet chairs — of Soyers presiding over the confection of 
" Lucullusian dinners " — of all the dainty delights and lavish 
luxuries, in short, which the combination of many rich persons is 
required to produce. And, perhaps, these dreams — ^monstrous 
though they seem, when simply stated — on which too much time 
has been bestowed and stress laid, — have not, unnaturally, dis- 
tanced those useful but unpalatable persons, whose vocation in life 
is to play the part of Weight-behind-the-Door, and Wet-Blanket. 
Of these I profess myself one. Resisting, to the death if need 
be, all the insolent and stupid apportionments of ** privilege,*' 
refinement, social comfort, or public enjoyment, as belonging 
to any one class alone, and going out, wiih all my heart, to meet 
those who popularise good in every form, I am still cold enough 
to recollect that a penny is not a pound — that limited cash and 
unlimited credit are two distinct things : and to apprehend that 
there is more suffering in breaking down after one has enjoyed 
pleasure, than in waiting for a while, till it can be placed on a 
permanent basis. Good morals forbid that any class of English 
society should sink into the squalor of Crabbe's Cieiia — ^who, 
when unable any longer to queen it in boxes of the Theatre, could 
derive a dismal satisfaction from queening it in the Gallery, and 
pointing out to her new associates, her old magnificence. 

She would to plays on lowest terms resort, 
Where once her box was to the beaux a court ; 



\ 



CLUB-CBOTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 25 

And, strange delight ! to the same house where she 

Joined in tibe dance, all gaiety and glee. 

Now with the menials, crowding to the wall, 

She 'd see, not taste, the pleasures of the baU, 

And, with degraded vanity, unfold 

How she too triumphed in the years of old ! 

Let US never go back. Let us not fall into the debauchery of a 
cynical acquiescence with what is coarse and second-rate, after 
we have tasted of better things. But that such an anti-climax may 
not happen — a misery to those who feel it, a degradation to those 
who submit to it cheerfully. Let us " take heed to our ways : " 
let us look warily, while we feel warmly and work unweariedly. 
;;;^Thus, under (perhaps) the Utopian notion of combining prudence 
and sympathy, I venture to tender a few considerations, expe- 
riences, warnings, and other like precious matters, to those interested 
in the Whittington Club, and the Whittington Fund. As an 
Operative who must needs labour for his penny — as a Bachelor 
who has been sworn at Highgate to prefer white bread to brown, 
etc. — as a Citizen who has a holy horror of the sound of Bow Bells, 
heard " within the rules " — I think, of course, that my wisdom is 
worth laying to heart. There are four points to be treated in turn — 
The House — The Guests — The Entertainment — Their Behaviour. 



THE HOUSE. 

In warning all persons concerned against house-pride, it must 
never be forgotten, that, since a cheap Club is, essentially, an 
establishment for use at all seasons, not for show during one ; — 
since it must be arranged to be perpetually frequented by the 
largest possible number of guests, there is one element of splen- 
dour which becomes a necessity — spaciousness. There wiU be 
favourite hours of the four-and-twenty, when, be it June or 
January — the Epsom week, or the Long Vacation — ^the reading- 
room ought never to be empty ; and, as reading is hungry rather 
than composing, with those to whom it comes as a treat, the 
eating-room will do well to bear a close proportion, in its dimensions, 
to the same. Further, where the party is a mixed one, it will never 
do to crowd your members to the point at which the lady cried 
to Sir Terence O'Fay, in Miss Edgeworth's novel, ** Sir, you 
have your finger in my ear ! " Space there must be : and this 
is hardly to be got on the continental plan of arrangement so largely 
obtaining in our new London houses — namely, by piling story on 



26 CLUB-CBOtCHSTB AND CHfiAP COlU^OSTS. 

story. The best ot accommodation thuls ebtiuned, is little more 
convenient, under the oireumslAiiees, than that managed for dear, 
huge Lablache, irho, wishing ease on a n^way journey, desired 
to have two places secured in ihe same carriage : — and found 
them taken oppoHteto e<»ck o^rf Keedless stair-climbing, too — 
m erttj member Mwkffng to that choice oBa of blunders, ttrchi- 
IMfcural as well as polilicai, the Ooufiton Okibf can aMesI — is mi 

n account objeetimiable. If iher^ be gargets in « giTcn Olub^ 
em be made ot«r to the Smokers : whose fkx» is legitimatdy 
'< high and dry/' and whose disputes (if Smok«t's erer do dispufta) 
will etaporate without producing distemperature in the world 
below, smOBg tliose who prefer a quiet chair amd an old bo^ iii a 
comer, to the best Kicotian wisdom iMch. Mr. NM^ hath to 
p^opowid concerning The Graiid Turk* 

As much space to turn in, as possible^ then^ being tak^i for 
granted, the next thing is, good air> good light, and, above alU 
for winter time>^good &-e ! On the chapter of these blessings iksre 
is no need to be tedious. They are sure to be managed. There 
is a passion foit the first. A whimsical acquaintance of mine, com- 
plains that the fancy for ventilation has become as engrossing and 
oppn^Bsite as the Tar-water mania, or the craae for Metallic Tree- 
tors. But in his complaint, he is pretty nearly as lonely as the 
sparrow on the house-top. Mr. BomMi's pleasant treatise has 
shown us how the rage for foul air — and scorching heat alternately 
with withering cold — ^has been appeased in proportion as men have 
become civilised and believers in Soap and Water ; or, to be 
serious, our high civilisation, which has brought with it new combi- 
nations of Disease and Disorganisation, has rendered indispensable 
that nice care for the nerves, which was sure to be answered by 
Science in the form of discovery. Here and there staiiis up a trou- 
blesome Reid who wUl poke holes in everyone's walls : — here and 
there a new safety-Valve inventor arises, always on the trot, to 
recommend his last, newest panacea ; and such enthusiastic persons 
are teasing — most of all, when they do not succeed. But there is no 
elkll for our Club lending itself to the madness ; howsoever loudly 
it claims to be delivered from all kitchen odours — ^from the 
exhaustion of .gas, tmaccompanied by proper outlets, and the like. 
As to Fire, that matter needs no stirring. With the improve- 
ments in the consumption of fuel, we have conteMpofaneously 
lived to enjoy the fall of price, which comes so welcomely home to 
every London hearth. It was religiously believed in our coal- 



CLUB-CROTCHETS ANt) CHKAP COMFORTS. 27 

cdtrnties, when I was a boj, that jour Cockney was not worth a 
poker ; — that he looked at his fire, believed in it, but dared not 
touch it. Thtet reproach, at all events, h passing away from m, 
as well as our profligacy in confounding " «?'s " and " w's," and 
and in tacking " t^'s '* to the feminine teitnination of cei^in 
words. Those who desire to comfort their self-consequenee by 
the si^t of a genteel, shivering metropolis, mirst cross the Chan- 
nel, and study Paris, with its wood-yards, and its fuel-baskets. 

Next we come to the aspect of our rooms, the usual <mt4ei for 
house pride and house extravagance, which has ruined many a 
Mr. Ludgate (as Miss Edgeworth's fearful story, " Out of Debt, 
otit of Danger," will warrant), and has "dipped" more than one 
crack West-end Club to a depth which, I trust, we have none of 
us any &ncy to sound. In order that Taste may be indulged, 
it must be watched. But Taste may be indulged, and no ruin 
ensue. There is always a choice in proportion, form, and colour ; 
due regard to which never fails to produce an agreeable and 
beautiful effect. And let me observe in respect of the last element 
of Beauty : ^e are now beginning to understand that the humid 
climate of our island, the length and darkness of our winters, and 
the loaded atmosphere of our metropolis, call for rich and enlivening 
hues, in place of those poor and sorrowful dead and stone-cdour 
and Quaker-gray tints, preferred some thirty years since, as chaste 
and classical. By judiciously using the primitive colours, there 
are few rooms — ^let the situation be ever so disadvantageous — to 
which an appearance of warmth, welcome, and habitation, may 
not be imparted. They have another immense recommendation^ 
when the question is a building which is to be somewhat mercilessly 
used ; namely, that of showing wear and tear less than more delicate 
and imdecided tints. It was an odd notion that red, blue, green, 
and yellow were vulgarer than ash-colour, or dust-colour, or a 
miserable sick lilac ; but it is now scouted out of our house- 
painters' and paper-stainers* heads j — ^partly in consequence of som6 
slight progress made bv us in the arts of design ; partly — ^wha 
knows ? — -by the spreaa of the doctrines of the Symbolists, Who 
tolerate uncanonical mixtures as little as they do tabemaculat 
hymns, or mottos on stained glass, which any unlettered Christian 
can read and profit by. 

There is another important matter, partly involved in the ques- 
tion of wear and tear; to wit, freshness. Our great-ffrandfathers 
and great-grandmothers furnished their houses as tliey dressed 



28 CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 

themselves for life. An easy chair and a brocade petticoat were 
heir-looms : possessions little less solemn than such cimdia as 
plate, lewels, <fcc. Hence — no disrespect to our ancestors — arose 
L aW niggardly cherishing of their posseBsions, restricting 
the use and comfort to be derived therefrom to high days and 
holidays ; hence — ^what was yet worse, with all their scrubbings 
and scourings, their layings-by and their lockings-up — an in- 
evitable frowsiness. Need it be pointed, that by club-law all 
such statutes are abrogated ? Very minute or punctilious careful- 
ness is impossible — wotild, if enforced, become a grievance. 
There are certain items, then, in furnishing which it is better 
should be owned to be perishable^ than chosen with an eye to 
posterity. While wood-work cannot be too strong, or too 
thoroughly seasoned — ^while Committees are hereby solemnly warned 
to avoid those showy advertising tempters, who invite the thinker, 
the smoker, the reader, or the debater, to a comfortable and 
trusting session in the depths of his easy chair ; and, at the least 
convenient moment, drop the worthy victim into the midst of a 
heap of mahogany dust, of broken legs, and rotten moreen — 
while the Cheap Cabinet-maker is especially to be avoided in a 
cheap club, — ^there are other articles, three of which would be more 
acceptable than one at treble the price, and lasting three times as 
long ; — all, for instance, involving fabrics in which odours harbour, 
or through which dust can penetrate ; such as curtains, carpets, 
and the like. Let everything, for economy's sake, be the best 
of its kind ; but let not the kind be of that original costliness 
which precludes the possibility of its being replaced. 

While, however, it is self-evident that freshness and simplicity 
are the utmost graces, in their house-furniture, which the mem- 
bers of a cheap club should expect, it by no means follows that their 
walls should go bare, and their windows dingy for lack of adorn- 
ment — ^if they please. Give them a pride in their house : and things 
are more impossible than that some should take pleasure in its 
garniture. Many a young Artist will not object to lend his pictures 
to hang in a place where they can be heartily admired : nay, to 
give his Club that dear unsaleable dream, which every Tinto must 
one time or the other relieve his mind by painting, ere he becomes 
sane and marketable. And though out of this, neither a second 
Louvre nor Garrick Gallery will grow, no one that has watched 
the progress of a collection, will doubt the possibility of its increase, 
and the chance of gradual improvement, let once interest and 



CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFOBTS. 29 

emulation be engendered. Some other enterprising and liberal 
sonl (and, thank. God ! '' enterprise and liberality are not deter- 
mined either by leisure or fortune " ) will, haply, bestow a frame 
on the picture : a third devote a few odd half hours to the deco- 
ration of the chimney-piece, or the garniture of the niche in the 
Hall or Library — where the statue of the Lord Mayor and his 
Cat will of course, one day, find itself. And, female ingenuity 
might take its part in the genial scheme, of beautifying the Home 
of much comfort. Think of the curious handiworks, which loyal 
ladies, from the depths of the country, have, of their unassisted 
selves, sent up to Queens, Heirs-apparent, Frincesses-royal — ever 
since Lady Lisle was anxious to coax Anne Boleyn into favour by 
her present of dotterels ! Think of the huge pieces of tapestry, 
extorted out of their yawning parlour and day-boarders by the 
Miss Cranes, resolute to advertise their seminaries by " tokens of 
affection," contributed by their pupils, as sincere as the circulars 
sent home before the holidays ! Think of the flags, which dashing 
Britomarts were wont to embroider for the ''gallant sons of 
Mars," with the prospect of delivering the same over a balcony, 

in the presence of ten companies of the th, with ** a Captain 

Clifford '* at their head ! Think of the astounding finger-industiy 
of German wife and maid, to whom nothing comes amiss — ^be it a 
pair of braces, or a dalmatique — the last scenes of " The Last 
Pays of Pompeii" wrought on six cushions, or the last piece of 
tea-board sanctimoniousness which has been conmGianded from the 
Munich Saint-Factory, for what Mrs. Glover calls a ^* pray do!" 
Think, once again, of the Fababo fancy-fairs for Mission Houses ! 
^— of righteous raffles, to raise up sisterly aid for the Reverend 
Israel Ben Israel, or to put money in Mr. Open's purse! — and 
say, whether a tithe of the like energy and ingenuity might not 
find its graceful and becoming occupation at Home ! It is to this 
sort of voluntary contribution, and to the heart put into the same, 
that we owe some of the most interesting specimens of ancient art 
and decoration. The principle of individual endowment and bene- 
faction, decked the cathedrals as we see them. Why should it not 
— in humbler form — under a discreet and sweet-tempered Clerk of 
the Needle Works — be again called forth to meet the spirit of the 
time ? What I have said lightly, I mean earnestly. The beauti- 
fication of a resting-place for the weary — of a refuge for those 
of narrow fortunes — of a haunt to which the lonely resort for 
cheerful associations, and those gifted with tastes, for pleasure 



30 CLUB-GBOTCfiETS AND CHEAP COJIFOBia. 

and enlightenment, would be no selfish nor friyolous ocoupc^ticaL 
for Woman's leisure. The House, whether for one or many, i^ 
never perfectly habitable till, in some form or other, her hand has 
passed over it ! 

There are, of course, many worthy souls belonging to sueh a 
large company, who will eall my fancies <' finical," and set their 
faces against ''trumpery" — content if they get the paper they 
love to grumble over, or the strong book they choose to feed upon; 
and caring little if liibrary. Parlour, or B^^tory, be dingy and 
bald as a consistent Quaker's chamber, or bright and welcoming 
on the heaviest day of suieidical November. And such should be 
neither taxed nor teamed* albeit not humoured in their preference of 
what is ugly and uninviting. There is small fear of Sybaritiai» 
among those who have themselves to produce the luxuries they 
are to ei^oy. But how precious are the objects thus produced ! 
Sir Walter Scott thought more of the willow arch in front of his 
cottage at Lasswade, which be tied together with his own handOf 
than of the Abbotsford, which his money but the workmcai of 
Blore, Atkinson, and Bullock, builded. 

Again, th^e ought to be small trouble, and not great expense, 
in forming a useful and extensive library for the use of the m^vi*- 
hers of the Cheap Club. Whatever befall the race of Authors--^ 
and whether or not days are coming when we shall have to 
scour the town, bribing the satiated public to listen to us, as 
some doleful persons profess to fear — certain is it that Readers 
were never so liberally provided for as now. What has become 
of the heavy, magnificent, four-guinea quarto ? A four and six-r 
penny volume, readable by the weakest or tenderest eyes, maketh 
answer ; if even we reject, with a view to comfort, the vast 
library of standard works, printed in double columns : or, grown a 
trifle luxurious in point of paper and print, we decline Mr. Barker's 
Library-F-with its nine-penny volumes of '* bark and steel " for the 
mind, in the shape of polities and of controversies — as a little too 
humble in its garb for a public institution. Here, again, will be a 
wide field for individual courtesy and generosity. There is hardly 
one member of the Whittington Club, who may not, if it so please 
him, add some book worth having to its shelves, in the course of 
the year. There is hardly one Author, who hath ever laboured 
for the comfort and delectation of the People, that may not* in 
some form or other, without any Quixotic liberality, be perma- 
nently represented among, be perpetually conversmg with, those 



GLUB-GROTCHET0 AND CHEAP COHFOBTS. 31 

whom he would fain influence or entertain. Let it be once understood 
that the Library is used, and not abused, and I firmlj believe 
that the outcry against popular cultivation, which is oddly enough 
kept up by Qettain unlhors who are always trying hard for clients, 
will not stand in the way of the bestowal of one standard book. 
Trash there will of course he, by the ton ; a depressing weight of 
fflQICTM^fttion copies — Foen^ without a breath of Poetry — Flajrfi 
j^akk «F6, indefld, li^\]thiioiUh<-«iid ihe like« But l«t lluMe woo 
desire keahhier faro, be ]^afted to reeoUeet tkat it rests, in som^ 
ifteasure, with themselves, iiow "jmeh room shall be left for the 
harb»irag9 of FoUy» Inanity, ]^yU teaching and onwholespm^ 
SioetRne. I We a stpozig truAt w tlmr taste» dtfc«nu»eii^» 
effort — and ceneeqiient sueeess. 

It will be obvious in the ab^^^ ibM I kaYe taken for granted 
that a better spirit will generally prevail tkan merely that hard 
determination to get the utaaost penny's worth for a Member's 
penny, which makes some of our more august Club-establishments, 
in spite of all their bravery, disgusting to such who enter them, 
as can think of sometbiug besides eating and drinking — to wit, 
the dduge after dinner I Sa^vOt indeedt. w^ had some such con- 
viction, who that loves his kind, and that wishes to expand 
and not to shut up its sympathies, would make a sign upon paper 
to bring the affair to pass ? A mere plaee pf cheap eating and 
soft sitting, with obsequions servants* and the run of ''the peri- 
odicals," however des]rah)e->— is s^inefthuig videly different from 
the Resort of those, who, hawng little leisure, should be, as much 
as possible, helped to make tke most thereof. Thw& is no fancy, 
in all this, of keeping school ; of eompetting grown men, whether 
ihey wiU or not, to be unsel^h, mutually coi:^iderate, and to make 
moral progress from day by day. even while following the small 
routine of daily life. Mine is no Utopiw idea of perfectibility. 
But if a Cheap Club for the Many is to mean anything — nay, I 
will say, if it is to be kept together on any terms whatsoever — it 
must be by a certain measure of care for All on the part of Each. 
In proportion as the money to be spent is less, must " the love " 
be more. And this I shall have yet more urgent reason to im- 
press and to illustrate, when I come to the second clause of my 
Homily — ^namely, when I attempt to ofl^ some crotchets with 
regard to the Company. 



L 



32 



THE LAMENT OF JOANNA OF SPAIN. 



JoanoA was the only surriving child of Ferdmand the Catholic, and the great 
Iiabella of Castille. She married Philip, the handsome son of the Emperor 
Maximilian ; and after a few years of married life, rendered very miserable by 
his neglect and her jealousy, at his death she became mad. His remains were 
interred in the Monastery of Santa Clara, adjoining the Palace at Tordesillas; and 
she sat at the windows that overlooked the sepulchre, mourning and keeping watch, 
for seven-and-forty years, never leaying the walls of her habitation, or taking any 
part in the government of her vast possessions, to which her son, the Emperor 
Charles Y., succeeded. Music was her sole delight and recreation. 

Mt life is weariness to mg ; 

I dread the rising of the sun ; 
And when he sinks amid the sea 

I wish the hours of darkness done. 
For nought brings pleasure, change, or cheer^ 
'Tis all the same— )>Iank, cold, and drear. 
One darksome Thought envelops all, 
And shrouds existence in the pall. 

'Tis forty years since I have seen 
The Autumn sear those forests green ; 
Blossom and foliage fall away, 
And brown, gnarled, naked arms display 
Their leanness to the light of day ! 
'Tis forty years since first I viewed 
The Spring deck out this. solitude — 
Since 1 have sat behind this grate, 
And seen the earth grow animate 
With youth, and bloom, and bird, and bee, 
And joy and love for all — but me ! 
I like tne Winter best ; for then 

Nature mocks not my grief-ploughed face,; 
Winds roar and mourn o'er rock and fen, 

And I seem in some kindred place : 
For o'er Earth's bleak and barren plains 
A sympathy with sorrow reigns. 

'Tis forty years since first I came 

With ashes on my heart and head, 
A homely, modest boon to claim — 

A grave for me and for my dead. 
'Tis all I hope or ask of Earth, 
To take back what she gave at birth. 



THE LAMENT OF JOANNA OP SPAIN. 33 

The sun sets not on my domain. 

What did my dower of kingdoms gain ? — 

My realms of gold in India's main ? 

I found the Peasant's lot above 

Her Queen's ; for she could waken love ! 

Oh, it hath madden'd me to see 

All could be happy, loved,— but me ! 

But me ! whose very brain gave way, 

Whose fond heart sunk, the Furies' prey, — 

Trampled, disdained, and cast away 

By him for whom I would have died 

With rapture-^aye ! and martyr's pride ; 

For then, perchance, I should have read 

Some pity in his keen, cold eye, 
For the devoted early dead, 

Whose Love for him was Agony — 
In dying more than living blest, 
If on his sympathising breast ! 

Ah me ! those weary days come back 

When I was on the mental rack, 

And sought in vain to charm and please, 

And smiled with spirit ill at ease ; 

And dressed, and danced, and jested light, 

Braided with flowers my locks of night, 

And strove to deck my Southern face 

With the fair Flemings' blooming grace : 

For they could please the roving eye 

Of him who passed me, widowed, by ! 

Yet I was beautiful ! My brow 

Was like the famed Egyptian Queen ; 

Rounded these cheeks — so hollow now ! 

Beaming, these tear-dimm'd eyes have been, 

And shone upon mv port and face 

The beauty of my lofty race. 

But it is idle thus to dwell 

On charms that long since drooped and died. 
That pleased not him I loved so well — 

Then, what have I to do with pride 1 

Ah me ! I thought that years of grief 

Had brought oblivion's cold relief. 

Can Memory with Madness reign 1 

Giye me my reason back again. 

Or let me, senseless, rave in vain ! 

Oh, my great mother ! oft I see. 

In dreams, thy calm eyes fixed on me, — 

NO. XXXI. — ^VOL. VI. D 



34 THE LAMENT OF JOANNA OF SPAIN. 

On me, thy last, lorn, maddened child, 
In thoughtful grief, in wonder mild — 
Art musing if that God be just. 
Whom thou didst serve with boondlees tnut ? 
Vigil, and fast, and alms, and prayer, 
Rewarded by a maniac heir 1 
Thy hope, of bud and flower bereft— 
And I — ^the mad and sullen — ^left ! 
Mother ! Great mother ! well didst thou 
Bear crown and cross upon thy brow ! 
Thy faith — a Phodnix ! rose aoove 
The ashes of Earth's hope and love-— 
And thou hadst peace ! Yes ! Peace at last — 
Peace — when the cloud and storm were past- 
Each thought and wish absorbed in God — 
While I rebel beneath his rod ! 

Mother ! Cassandra-like, I see 
Our long line's mournful destiny—* 
And, in a haze of grief and shame. 
The barren ending of our name ! 
Madness and weakness, pride and sin- 
Spoilers without — false friends within ! 
Oh ! the slow death that gnaws my heart ! 
My spirit struggles to depart— 
What can be worse than forty years 
Of raving, moaning, pain and tears 1 
Yet is my future dimm'd by fears ! 

Strike the loud hai-p ! my sole delight, 

And charm me to forget my woe. 
And let the organ's tones of might 

Through the cathedral arches flow ; 
Sing me the Psalms of Israel's king — 

The great, the penitent, the sad — 
My spirit soars upon his wing ; 

Let me forget that I am mad ! 
I e'en can pray — " Oh Lord, how long 1 
And, sooth'd and soften'd by the song, 
I bless him for the hope he gave, 
And buried, blighted, in the grave ! 

Mas. Acton Tindal. 



f» 



35 



THE COMIFG REFORMATION. 

PART lU, 

** Men, my brothera, isen the worlcers, eter reapisig sometliing new, 
That wMch. they hare done but earnest of the things which they shall do." 

Tenntson. 

My D£AB Peboy. — So jou are satisfied with mj analysis of 
Toryism, yet cannot understand why I do not at once pass to 
Radicalism ? I will tell you why. It is hecause I hold Badi« 
ealism as a potent and useful engine for the destruction of a 
superannuated Toryism ; hut I think it unahle to replace the 
bTitutionsit woJ d^j by any new InstitutionB of L own. 

Toryism I cidled the exponent of Order with Retrograde ten- 
dencies. 

Radicalism, its antagonist, is the exponent of Progress with 
Destructire tendencies. 

Now if I am correct in saying that Society can only he fitly 
regulated hy a doctrine which shall contain within itself, hoth the 
principles of Order and the principles of Progress, you will at 
onee see that hoth Toryism and Radicalism must necessarily he 
ineompet^t to that office, since they each only emhrace one set 
of the conditions. 

Other reasons might he adduced. For example, we all must 
see that Radicalism is essentially destructive, and therefore its- 
office is limited to criticism of the reigning piinciples. The Tory 
declares all social disorder springs from l^e nation having for-- 
saken its ancient standards, and discarded the spirit from its 
ancient Institutions. The Radical no less stoutly declares that 
it spring from the still incomplete destruction of ancient preju- 
dices and e£^te Institutions* 

I am inclined to agree with the Radical ; hut only up to a 
certain point. To me it seems that the incomplete destruction of 
ancient prejudices is only part of tiie evil ; and that hy far the 
greater part of the evil arises from the ahsence of any doctrine 
capahle of aupplying the place once supplied hy that doctrine, 
now in ruins. And it is herein that the weakness of Radicalism 
lies. Great in opposition — irresistihle in the assertion of Rights 

d2 



36 THE COMING REFORMATION. 

over Privileges, of Justice over Favouritism — ^powerful as the 
protest of outraged Humanitj — it is weak, vacillating, vague and 
contradictory in construction. Once suppose its destructive office 
at an end, and what remains for it ? 

To be eloquent over the misery of millions, to expose the 
injustice of class legislation, to rouse the People to a sense of 
their rights and their mights, is a great office ; and it is the 
office of Radicals. But do not in your admiration confound that 
office with what it is not. Do not mistake the eloquent Orator 
for the great Legislator. Demosthenes was not Solon. Art is 
not Science. Be cautious, therefore, lest your sympathies mis- 
lead you into the too common error of supposing Radicalism has 
any constructive power. If a Revolution were to-morrow to place 
the country in the hands of the Radicals, the utter inefficiency of 
that party would be manifested by this dilemma. Either, first, 
they must replace the existing Institutions by new ones framed 
upon a basis that would admit of both Order and Progress ; or, 
secondly, they must govern by means of existing Institutions 
slightly modified. 

They could not do the first, simply because they have no 
accepted theory of society upon which to found their Institu- 
tions. Their efforts expend themselves in eloquence. They 
have no theory of social hierarchy, though they (at least the 
most intelligent sections) admit the absurdity of absolute equality. 
In action they would be powerless ; or else they would fall back 
upon existing Institutions, and try to adapt them to their pur- 
poses. But if the existing Institutions are good. Radicalism is 
a mere uproar and revolt ; if good enough at bottom, and only 
needing a little modification, then is Radicalism not a doctrine, 
cannot be accepted as a Party, but has at best the subordinate 
office of criticism. 

To the Radical I put this question : "Are you, on the whole, 
satisfied with the present social hierarchy?'* Does he answer, 
" No," then I challenge him to bring forward his theory of society 
with its new Institutions and all its machinery ; does he answer, 
** Yes, but in some respects it might be altered,'* then I say to 
him, ** Sir, you are only a critic, useful perhaps in your line, but 
playing too subordinate a part for me to trust the destinies of our 
nation to you or such as you. Your efforts are confined to 
Destruction ; I want one who can build*" 

One remark will convince you, Percy, how thoroughly destruc- 



THE COMING REFORMATION. 37 

tiVe Radicalism is, and how obyiously opposed it is to anything 
like organic unity in its aims. It is this : * Radicals admit within 
their circle all varieties of opinion which have a destructiye ten- 
dency. Every conscientious Radical will, I am sure, on self-inter- 
rogation, confess that he looks leniently upon social theories in 
themselves eminently anarchical — such as Chartism, Socialism, 
Fourierism, &c. If he does not approve of them as theories, he 
encourages them as instruments. Absurd as he may deem them, 
and incompetent as he may know them to be to afford a true solution 
of the political problem, he sees that they are destructive of esta- 
blished Institutions, and in so far they have his sympathy and 
support. "There are quarrels,'* says Carlyle, "in which even 
Satan, bringing help, were not unwelcome ; even Satan, fighting 
stiffly, might cover himself with glory — of a temporary sort." But 
Radicalism, if it were an organised theory capable of affording the 
true solution of the problem, would never for an instant tolerate 
these theories, but would combat them as damnable heresies 
destructive of all social order. 

If I called Toryism the Stationary doctrine, I may call Radical- 
ism the Visionary, for, apart from its criticism of the solutions 
offered by others, it is romantically visionary. Its great argument 
is Hope. *' Give us a Republic, get rid of the present system, 
and new Institutions will soon be found." That — I speak it 
seriously — ^is the belief of the Radicals ; and their belief they 
put forward as an argument. 

Institutions will come ! What misconception of the whole 
subject is betrayed by this vague hope ! WhencCt I ask, are 
these Institutions to proceed ? Is it expected that they will 
descend from Heaven in the sudden inspiration of democratic 
oratory? Is it expected that they can be "made to order? *' 
Will they spring up out of the brains of facile theorists as soon as 
wanted ? 

• No, Percy, no : not thfAS do Institutions grow. There is but 
one healthy process ; they can only proceed from the spiritual cul- 
ture of the whole nation — from its Religion or its Philosophy. 
The nation must be swayed by its Faith or its Ideas. Once 
destroy the faith in Royalty and Aristocracy, and you have 
destroyed the whole framework of a monarchical society. It must 
be organised ' anew. But how organised ? I can conceive one 
method and only one, viz., by some organic doctrine in which the 
ideas of the theorists will respond to and embody the wants of the 



38 THE COMING REFORMATION. 

masses ; — ^in which, soeiety wiU find Instituiioiis compatible wiih 
its development and itB stability, its Progress and its Order. 

Institutions vnU come ! Oh ! did not the French Berolutiixi in 
its ghastly instruction teach us forcibly enough the folly of ezpeei- 
ing such miracles ? did it not show Ihe futility of '' pi^iHsonsti- 
tutions " in contest with social dismption-^of '' experiments " in 
government, when each theonst had hisp^on, and the Nation to be 
ruled had no accepted creed ? 

It is well to look forward with oonfidenoe to what the Future 
may produce ; but it is not well to look into the nebulous futurity, 
and mistake the shadows of our ardent aspirations for the substui* 
tial forms of Institutions which await, us ; it is fatal to mistake a 
hope for a fact — an instinct' for a dooirine. Yet this is the 
mistake of Radicalism. It hopes in the Future, and trusts that 
the present system once abolished, the true system will naturally 
evolve itself from the change. This is to call down Anarchy in 
the belief that Order must E^ontaneously shape itself out of 
Chaos ! 

TJie Coming BeformatUm is not, let us fervently hope, so wild a 
scheme as that. It will grow out of the definite convictions of 
thinking men. It will ree^nd to that greatest of all social wants 
— ^the want of unanimity. It will as«gn to each individual his 
true function, and admit of every faculty having £ree activity in as 
far as it is consistent with the well-being of society. It will secure 
Liberty of Conscience^ and suppress that pernicious lAberty of 
Private Judgment which now disturbs dUl attempts at social 
organisation. 

I anticipate the expression of your astonishment at hearing me 
thus denounce the sacred right of private judgment; but be 
patient with me for awhile ; I am not uttering paradoxes, I am 
only drawing your attention to a great, though little recognised^ 
truth. 

The right of every individual to think* for himself, and to express 
or in any way maintain and pn^agate his opinions, is to be con^ 
sidered in two lights : Firstly, as the only fitting preparation 
for a new doctrine ; Seedndly, as simply destruc^ite cf an old 
doctrine. 

It is preparatory when^ the laws of tiie phenomena being stiM 
unascertained, men are seeking^ and have the liberty of sedttng^ 
where they please and. how they please ; every opinion is then 
welcome, every guess may be of sorvioe. But man is not doomed 



\ 



r 



^EHB. OOKEKO BEFORMATIOIU 39 

to this initiatiye stage of' mere doubt and hesitation. The true 
principles which he is- seeking^ when found, will command implicit 
obedience. As Aususte Comte acutely observed, ** There is no 
liberty of thought DLtroBomy, in phyLs. in chemistry, eren in 
physiology ;: the man would be considered absurd who did not 
b^iave itpofi trm^ the principles established by competent men in 
these seienees. If it be otherwise in politics, it is because the old 
principles are discredited, and the new priilciples are not yet 
establii^ed ; oonsequently there are, properly- speaking, no prin- 
ciples at aU."* 

It once oeeuned to me that Comte* s obserration was not so 
strictly true as I had formeriy fancied ; and as the same objection 
may present itself to you, I will here examine it. This it is : 
Men beiieye upon trust what Astronomers and Chemists say, 
because they know themselves to be incompetent to form an 
opinion en Astronomy and Chemistry, and must therefore, if they 
would haire any opinion, at all, aoeept that in vogue ; because, 
moreorver, the influence of these sciences upon society and the 
individual, although potent, is neverthelesB indirect and inappreci- 
able. This latter reason semns conclusive. Whether the Earth 
turn round the Sun, or the contrary, is a matter of exquisite indif- 
ference to Jones : ginger wiU not cease to be ** hot i' the mouth,** 
whichever hypoUiesis be adopted^ But Jones, in Astronomy so 
acquiescent,, is less easy to be persuaded in morals or politics : they 
toudi him nearly, and truth becomes identified with his immediate 
interest. Jealous of all spritual tyranny, Jones acquiesces in 
science ; but stands up for the liberty of opinion in Beligion and 
Politics. On these latter subjects he, in his naive stupidity, fan- 
ctes he can form an opinion, and insists on having it I 

]EIxamiii€d olosely, lids objection will not stand* In the first 
place, whoever knows anything of soeial science knows, that, so far 
from its being within the reaiSi of ordinary men — so far from the 
Joneses and Browns being competent to fonn any opinion at all 
upon it, that is not .flagrantly false and absurd, — it is of all sciences 
'he most complex, &e most intricate, and the most difficult. 
Ordiuiry: mefB endowed with reasonable industry may, and do, 
attain to a considerable knowledge of physical soience ; if not dis- 
soFsrers, tiu^ are at least upholders of. what has been discovered ; 
if theg^ have, not the adyentorous skill of the merchant, ransacking 

— I . ■ ,1 I I I , .1 . nu ll. ■ ■ fJ ' I ■■■■'■■■■! I »■<■*— PW*«iWi»» 

* Ooura dc PhUoaophie Potitwef IV., p. 49. 



40 THE COMING HEFORMAtlON. 

tlie globe for fresh merchandise, thej have solid and capacious 
warehouses wherein the merchandise is stored. But the Bam& 
man who makes a conspicuous figure in the Academy of the- 
Sciences would be a child in politics. The abstruseness and com> 
plexity of social science is hidden from us in two ways : First, By 
the absence of any laboratory and technical terminology, which, in 
the sciences, effectually shut out the ignorant from eren the pre- 
tension of judging : Secondly, By our long enjoyment of the right 
of discussing public topics ; which has induced a rapidity of judg- 
ment, anticipative of all evidence, and a foolish confidence in our 
own sagacity. Were it not for this, men would humbly confess 
that social science was to be approached with a due sense of its> 
intricacy, and of the necessity for proper preparatory studies; 
they would confess that liberty of private judgment would be mor& 
out of place in politics than in any other science. 

But let me call your attention to this fact : Religion and 
Politics, which so nearly concern every man, have only in modem' 
times submitted to this right of private judgment. It was the 
Reformation which — for destructive purposes — introduced this, 
liberty into Religion. Before that event, the mass of men believed 
upon trust. The Priests were the only teachers. The Scriptures- 
were not translated. People were forced to believe, in the absence- 
of all evidence ; and no one murmured thereat. So also inp 
Politics : the discussion of principles of government is treason 
even now in Austria and Russia ; and the period is not very remote, 
when any one in England who should have questioned the Divine 
Right of Kings to do wrong, would have been executed as a< 
factious rebel. 

You see therefore that Comte's observation is. profoundly true,, 
and you must admit that I uttered no paradox when I rejoiced in 
the prospect of liberty of private judgment becoming absurd. So- 
evidently impossible is it for any doctrine which is constructive, 
and not simply destructive, to tolerate liberty of opinion, that the 
very Reformation which introduced the principle, turned round 
upon it, directly the principle was applied to Lutheranism. Luther- 
and his followers used liberty as a destructive instrument ; havings 
gained the day, they sternly refused to permit that liberty any^ 
more. Calvin burned his friend for indulging in that liberty ; and 
Protestant sovereigns, shocked at the intolerance of Catholicism,, 
roasted their Catholic subjects for the triumph of liberty %£ 
opinion. 



THE COHINa BEFORMATION. 41 

• The infalliblHty of the Pope was a monstrous sophism, and men 
irith free souls, loying freedom of opinion, revolted against that 
sophism. What has* been the consequence ? Protestantism ^th 
its liberty is split into innumerable sects, and the irritable infalli- 
bility of each sect is substituted for the infallibility of the Pope. 

. In Politics the same spectacle presents itself. The French 
Kevolution — that text for all political discussion — owed its triumph 
to the principle of liberty of opinion. Haying destroyed the ancien 
re'gime, and haying taken in its own hands the reins <kE govern- 
ment, it found itself forced to interdict, with sanguinary energy, 
that very principle of liberty which it had espoused. Men were 
free to discuss the acts of the monarchy ; because discussion waa 
the privilege of freemen. But if they were also free to discuss 
the acts of the republic, the republic was free to send them to the 
scaffold. 

Look where you will, you see the same thing. The cause is 
deep-rooted. Until the laws which regulate society are discovered 
and appreciated — ^until social science has gained somewhat of the 
stability and precision of the other sciences, it is hopeless to expect 
perfect tolerance, and then tolerance will be indifference. When 
once that desired event takes place — ^when politics shall be a 
science — ^men may indeed indulge in the absurdity of private 
judgment, just as there may still be found an eccentric speculator 
who refuses to accept, the law of gravitation ; but in each case the 
result will be contempt. Thus the Reformation introduced the 
principle of liberty of opinion. The destructive mission once ful- 
filled, the- New Reformation will come, and, without interfering 
with the liberty of discussion, will restrain it within healthy limits* 
It win substitute one tyranny for another, I admit ; but instead of 
the tyranny of caprice, it will be the tyranny of Truth. 

Tou will not so far misunderstand the foregoing, as to suppose 
I wish to repress discussion by any external means. That would 
be tyranny* But, convinced as I am of the necessity for unanimity 
on sJl the great fundamental points — and this would still leave a 
large margin for differences of opinion with respect to details — I 
see in the principle of private judgment, so loudly extolled, a potent 
source, of anarchy, and I wish therefore to see it discredited, but 
discredited solely by the excellence and truth of the dominant 
opinions. I wish also that men should learn to take upon trust 
tnat which they have no capacity for understanding. 

To return to the Radical party. I cannot join it because it has. 



42 TfiB 0<»CINa REPOBUATIOH. 

no definite soelal ^eory. It n all very well tidking ahovk Bemo- 
craej and Republics ; but before I give mj consent to Republican^ 
iem, I wish definitely to understand what sort of a Republic ia 
proposed. Are we to imitate those of Greece and R(»ne ? The 
notion is childish. Are we to imitate ^ose of America and 
Switzerland ? I oan see no earthly advantage in such, a project ; 
but manifold' disadvantages* 

The sovereignty of the People i& a good subject for declamation, 
but it is a contradiction in terms. Either there must be a social 
hierarchy of some kind, or there must be absolute equality. If we 
are to have an hierarchy, of what kind is it to be ? Radicalism ia 
silent. Absolute equality ! — it is a wild chimera. There cannot be 
equality of physical and mental powers, for these are the eaprtcious 
gifts of Nature ; and the progress of civilisation, in spite of itft 
cultivation of the masses, tends more and more to develop intel«- 
lectual disparities, by the increase of stimulue. 1>here cannot, be 
equality of property, for property depends on skill, fbredioughi^ 
and perseverance, in which men are imequal. There cannot be 
equality in social rank, because no government oan go on without 
a proper hierarohy and subordination^ The People, if they 
govern themselves, must govern by a Setiate or Chosen. Body— 
and this chosen body will be superior in power at least to the rest» 
80 that it will poduce inequali^. 

If the Frmich Revolution had not shown, it us, it would stili 
have b«en ea^ to fowsee the c<m«quenee8 resulting from any 
attempt at realising the doctrine of equably : a ^vage leyelling 
of all merit down to the vilest standard. But in truth, equality ia 
60 chimerical, that it never has been, and never can be introduced 
into society'. 

Let me then assume it as an admitted principle, thai evory 
eooiety must have an hierarohy of some lund«. I then ask you v^Kxt 
kind is that schemed out for a Republic by sanguine Radicals ? 
Th^ have no theory of somety beyond this very sim^e one, '' That 
society requires reorganisation. Get rid of the present deorepit 
system, and the right one will be sure to eWve itself. " In otiiier. 
words, their doctrine is purely destructive. A striking example of" 
the truth of this may be seen, in the want of any rational hierarehyt 
to substitute in the place of the present. Radicals are-powerful 
when dii^scting ^eir attacks against ike notion of hereditary: 
legislators. They have no great difficulty in exp«ung iiia 
absurdity of a man becoming a le^slator because. his' father- was a 



XES tKBIINQ SIVOHBCAJIOH. 43 

peer, ^niiaieTer faii moral or mental qualifioacttoxMi may iuqipen to 
be. That is to bbj — ^thej are triumphant in the destmetiye 
argument ; bat ydmi figure do they cut in the conBtmctiye ? 
What answer do they giye to the question : Who are to be the 
Bnlers of the Nation ? 

The answers are two : Ist, The theorists prodaim a goyemment 
of the Wisest. 2nd, The more thorough-going republicans pro* 
daim the purity and mdkpensability of the Bepresenttiye prin- 
eiple, and demand that the People shall choose whomsoeyer it 
jdeases them. 

Let us examine each opinion. *' Men," said Plato, ** will 
neyer be happy tUl they are goyemed by Philosophers." This is 
such a generous error that we cannot wonder at its wide difiiofiion. 
Yet of aU Utopias I beheye it the least practicable. I need not 
say with Ilousseau that there neyer has been, neyer will be, a phi- 
losopher who would not, for the sake of his own ^ory, deceiye all 
mankind ; I need only point to ihe two insuperable obstacles to 
oar ever realising such a goyermnent as that of the Wisest. 

And, firstly, how are the Wisest to be recognised ? How are 
we to know the men to select ? Obserre, Percy, the stringency of 
this question. If the goyemment of Philosophers be desirable, 
of course the Wisest ought to form ihat goyemment ; for if men 
of narrower and falser yiews be selected, the tme principle has 
been yiolated ; and if the absolutely Wisest are not to rule us, 
then what is the degree of Wisdom which can be pronounced a 
qualification ? It would be difficult to determine. 

I return then to the question: How to recognise the Wisest 
Men ? You will not so fiu* contradict universal experience as to 
suppose that any age really has recognised its truly wise men, 
those who 

<^ Stood in the foremost files of time." 

It is not. till the mission of a great thinker is aeeompli^ed that 
the woiid can judge whether he really was a great thinker or only 
a fanciful dreamer. Henoe the iujustioe — often times neglect — 
which nwets eydky great c^oyery, whioL striyes to gag the 
utterance of erery new important trath. It is not many years 
shice Sir W. Scott ridiculed the idea of steam being used to propel 
yessels. The names of GaULeo and Hanrey are perpetually being 
<»ted as examples of the tendency I speak of ; but how little haye 
these eoDamples preyented sooeeeding generations from adding 



44 IHE> COMING REFORICATIOK. 

Other examples to them ! We round sonorous periods of copious 
liberality and tolerance ; we declaim against the bigotry of man^ 
kind ; we adorn our rhetoric with world-famous examples ; and 
the first man who startles us with the enunciation of a novelty (if 
it be not some egregious sophism pandering to oiir tastes) we treat 
in the same way as our forefathers treated Harvey! ** Truth;" 
says Landor, ** is only unpleasant in its novelty. He who first 
utters it says, * You are less wise than I.' Now who likes this ? " 
Great Thinkers can only be fully appreciated by posterity. Great 
Khetoricians and great Charlatans will always enchain the sympa- 
thies of the day. Great Thinkers are too far removed above the 
mass to be understood ; and excite too much rivalry among their 
own class to be fairly estimated. 

The mass of men, destined to action, sympathise more with an 
intellect of middling capacity joined to practical activity, than 
with an intellect of a purely speculative excellence, however ele- 
vated. The man of action is understood, and his superiority of 
mental power is recognised. The man of speculation is not under- 
stood ; and if his superiority happen to be acknowledged, it is 
acknowledged blindly, — it excites no sympathy, exerts no influence. 
I see no reason to deplore this. I believe that Thought is the 
great instrument of Civilisation ; the great central force from 
which all social action springs. But I also believe that Thought 
is destined to a purely consultative and preparatory office. By the 
application of abstract ideas it directs the vessel of the state ; but 
is not itself the Helm. It informs the Pilot how to steer, but 
leaves the rudder in his hand. Theory is a distinct province, and 
should never attempt to usurp that of practice. To attempt sucb 
an usurpation would only end in crippling the efforts of pure specu- 
lation, and in confusing those of practice. For it is well known 
that speculation to be productive must be left free to range whither 
it pleases, and in nowise be tied down to practical exigencies ; 
otherwise no advance in theory could be made, everything new' 
being invariably pronounced impracticable. On the other side^ 
suppose the Wisest once recognised and assembled together, and 
Government placed in their hands, the province of theory would 
then be found usurping that of practice ; whereby both would fali 
to the ground. The consequences would soon be fatal ; among- 
them we should see the establishment of a caste similar to that of 
the ancient priesthood, which for its own supremacy would use it» 
utmost. to keep the many hood- winked, and would itself soon 



TUB SEASON OUT OF SEASON. 45 

relapse into sterile indolence. The Egyptian Priesthood was an 
illustration ef the goyernment of the Wise. 

Let me now call jour attention to the Representative Principle, 
from which so much is expected. Democrat as I am, I cannot con- 
ceal from myself the very great dangers society must incur in 
allowing itself to be governed by a senate elected by the people, 
unless controlled by some social theory which all cultivated minds 
accept. The wide opening it affords to demagogues of all descrip- 
tions, the anarchical stimulus given to a paltry ambition, render it 
necessary to have some counteracting influence of a very decided 
kind in the other social arrangements. But for this we need a 
social theory ; and a hierarchy founded on that theory ; which are 
the two things I complain of as being totally absent in the Radical 
scheme. 

The foregoing remarks will- have explained to you why I can- 
not receive Radicalism as otherwise than a destructive party, 
capable of preparing the way for the New Reformation, but not of 
taking any constructiye part in it. As the exponent of Progress 
it has a great mission. It is the counterpart of Toryism, whose 
office is stability. If, as I before said, it is the fear of anarchy 
which makes Toryism strong, so also is it the fear of retrogression 
— a sense of the necessity for progress, which makes Radicalism 
strong. And this great combat between the two principles of 
Order and Progress keeps society in a state of suspense. Mean- 
while they prevent the undue predominance of either too rash a 
change or too retrogade a movement. 

It now remains to see what are the claims of Whiggism to be 
considered as the true exponent of Order and Progress, This I 

reserve for my next. Yours ever 

lours ever, ^ Vivian. . 



THE SEASON OUT OF SEASON. 

BY PAUL BELL. 



Street, L&nd&n, Jwm 5ih, 1847. 



** And how camest thou here ?" was the question, put during one 
of her prison-visits, by Priscilla Gotobed, to a fine, young, tawdry 
creature in durance, whose graces had not excused her from ** a 
month on themill."-i-'*If you thought proper, ma'am," was the 



46 THS SBASOK OUT OF SEASON. 

answer, — ^' I was at the iheaire one mght" • . • ; "And 
what had a respectahle young woman like thee — ^the mother of a 
small child/' interrupted the kindly, hut skaight-laced Friend — 
** to he doing in such a place ?"•..." ma'am," 
was Cowslip's reply, in the tone of one who Tents an established 
fact — "Everybody, yOu know, n:iH8t go to the play onoe in a 
season ! ** 

No less necessary is it for every one of US to be in London 
from time to time ; especially now that the days of pillion-journey- 
ing are over (I hope that some one has hoarded a pillion for The 
British Museum), now that Members of Parliament do frank — and 
the Morning Post complains — arefra/nk — ^no more. We have duties. 
There are deputations ; railway committees involving free quarters^ 
white-bait dinners and opera-boxes. There is Exeter Hall : and 
what merciful Christian will be so lukewarn;! as not to drop his 
burning coal upon the cairn of blazing fire-brands annually raised 
there, imder which Popery, as idl the sons of Simeon know . . • 
lies half suffocated and altogether like to die ? — There are foreign 
customers from ^e Continent to be met. One must buy wine : 
our wives bonnets. One MUST — ^this is a religion only one 
degree less fervent Ihan that of Exeter-Hall-gobg — hear Jenny 
Lind I — In the present instance, there were exhibitions my Lame 
Boy longed to look at. Then, my Mrs. Bell has been for a year din^ 
ning into my ears, that I ^* owed it to myself " to be seen in the 
literary circles, by way of simple acknowledgment of the verses 
written to me (which she has read) : — and of the favourable notice 
which my Lancashire talk is known to Have excited in the 
highest quarters. But I do not believe, as I have told her a score 
of times, that Her Majesty and H,R,H, the. Prince would send 
for me, to meet my old correspondent Mr. Wordsworth, were I in 
London ever so constantly ! — ^nor that Lady Londonderry would 
give sixpence for my glove — following the example of what the 
most charming Duke of Dukes (to quote Miss Le Grand) did the 
other day for hen at the Irish Bazaar. Still less, that Mr. Lane 
has been offered a large sum by Mr. Sheriff Moon — for a speaking 
likeness of me, to hang in the shops. When people are told 
•* they owe anything to fiiemselves," they are mostly supposed to 
want being persuaded to do something they ought not to do. But 
though I am in London, it does not follow Ihat I should make a 
fool of myself, Mr. Jerrold knows that he is bound, under a 
penalty, not to acquaint any one where I lodge. It is not in 



XSB BBA60N OUT OF flEA.SOK« 47 

BelgraTk, however ; nor among tbe Italian genUemen who sing 
for Mr. Xiomley, in Golden Square. Beyond this fact, merely 
adduced to satisfy ill-natured persons in Halcyon Row, that I am 
neither grown foppish nor foreign — I shall not. divulge my resi- 
dence. Those may he made Lions of, who will : — ^and can. 

As to the hest of Lionism, indeed, what a transient thing has 
that hecome, owing to the rapidity of the times we are living in — 
jmd the rapidity of all successions of emotion ! Granting tha^ 
wares of all sorts are not essentially flimsier than they used to be, 
when the wisdom of our Ancestors contrived them, — they are 
indii^utably sooner laid by than formerly. I started in London, 
on tiie day when the rumour of O'ConneU's death arrived there — 
happening to dine with an old friend and correspondent, whom^ 
thirty years ago, such a topic would have lasted from the begin- 
ning of his dinner at four o'clock p.m. till the end of his efter 
session at four o'clock a.m., when some of the party were fain to 
tumble home to their wives, under protection of Rattle and 
Lantern ! WeU-a^lay, matters were changed with a vengeance I 
changed as entirely as Dilbeiry's dwelling, which the good man — 
under pretext of fresh air — ^hath removed from Red Lion Square 
jto Westboume Place, in the country, behind Kensington Gardens 
— ^making it a journey, I must say, to get there I To think of 
the Lib^tor being disndssed with "Poor O'Connell! Well: 
there was a time when he would have been a loss !** — ^And then 
to hear my old friend — the once-political Bilberry, straightway 
*' divaricating," with as keen an interest as that of Mrs. Bilberry 
ihe Third, or Miss Annette, or Miss Luoie, to the "prices 
current " of stalls in the Haymarket, and pits in the Garden — 
to Lind's " OhJ " and Alboni's ''Ah! " Was this not enough 
to make a plain man shake his head and rub his eyes f It was 
strange and sad to see how snudl a sensation was excited by the 
return to France of the ashes of Napoleon ; but this indifference 
at the departure of one little less cheered, little less abused, little 
less powerful in his day, and in propria persond a good deal 
more eloquent, struck me more intensely than I can describe : not 
merely as a type of the difference betwixt False and True, between 
tinsel and gold, between " Fame which fivMt endure, and Fame 
which will not last,'' but as a reminder of the rate at which we are 
living. When we have <* girdled the earth," we may, possibly, 
come back to O'Connell! — and some Carlyle may work his Life 
and Times into something as poetical as an epic, as breathlessly 



48 THE SEASON OUT OP SEASON. 

interesting as a novd, as instructive as ''a screed'* of Adam 
Smith's doctrine ; and as humorous, or thereahouts, as a chapter 
of Bahelais. 

Yes : 'tis a curious, pie-crust Babel, this London of ours : 
(since passing my season here, entitles me to speak in the tone 
of a Proprietor) — in more ways than the above. When one goes 
to the Treasury to look for Sir John Soane*s Architecture, — ^as a 
German friend of mine, an architect, made me do the other day — 
the pretty caramel cover (to use one of dear M. Soyer's terms of 
culinary edification) spun over it by Barry, not only flatters the 
eye prodigiously, but also quickens the spirits of the Projector. 
Good man ! he sees no reason why there should not be a new drop- 
scene run up by somebody^a Lame Boy, twenty years hence, when he 
becomes a great man : if it should please the Prince of Wales, 
like his father, to busy himself in ** pictures, taste, and the musical 
glasses " (Shakspeare left out). The National Gallery, towering 
on tiptoe above the two wash-hand basins, cowering behind that 
new West-End Bully — the Nelson pillar — and sideling out of St. 
Martin's way — ^is already under a cloud of rumours ; which, ere 
long, they say, will take a real form, and blot out the face and 
thefagade thereof — ^to the great comfort of architects who lack 
occupation, and dream, like simple Tom Pinch, of their own im- 
mortality. Then, down comes the Marble Arch at Buckingham 
Palace, and up goes a new front, in order that the glue-pots, 
which nearly set Her Majesty on fire while she sat at her spinet, 
may be fairly driven out of the royal residence : — and that the 
servants may cease to sleep in their present zoological pens, which 
but want the tin plate bearing scientific name and classification — 
the pan* of water — and the grate in front — to be complete ! 
** Punch," and the great hail-storm, seem between them to have 
made an end of the Quadrant, which cut so wondrous a figure in 
the " Microcosms" and " Pictures of London" not so long ago : — 
and a Mr. Albano (** it's like those Italians !" my Mrs. Bell would 
say) has taken care, that if Mrs. Siddons did walk, she should 
not know her own Covent-garden again ! — were she foolish 
enough to enter there, in the hope of such ghostly comfort as a 
sight of Congreve's " Mourning Bride,"or Jephson's ** Braganza,*' 
or Hannah More's ** Percy," or Shakspeare and Gibber's ** Juliet." 
Whether, in fact, this London of ours be London at all, is a 
matter which the Babbages might do worse than question, and 
the Wheatstones than experimentalise to prove. The Temple 



THE SEASON OUT OF SEASON. 49 

Church dressed up, dressed prettily, I confess (but what should 
we think of the barristers in Middle-Aged suits of motley ?) — The 
Elect gone, albeit the national debt burdens us so heavily, that 
Mr. Doubleday assures us no mortal will presently have any 
money left to pay for anything withal — St. Giles's, so riddled 
through and through with grand stucco streets, not of gin-palaces 
only, but of other shops, where the wares are €heaj> and chaste, 

like Mrs. *s shawl, that the Rooks must needs wing their 

way to some other shelters: — ^here he. data enough on which. to 
build, according to pie-crust usage, a fair structure of question 
which would last its season ere it could be settled ; were there 
not still the cloud which blocks up the summit of that Olympus, 
Ludgate Hill — St. Paul's Dome — the greatest deed ever achieved 
by a Wren — ^to re-assure bewildered elderly persons from, the 
country that they are still, after all that has been pulled down and 
pulled up, — in Whittington's town. Long be it ere the foundations 
thereof are removed ! 

Again ; in getting about — just think how the gentilities which 
used to contribute so much pleasure and dignity to the stranger 
in London have shifted their ground ; not merely in articles of 
brick and compo, as from Eed-Lion Square to Bayswater, but in 
a thousand usages and outward and visible signs. Lady Sailsbury, 
and Lady Bertie and BeUair, go to buy their Railway stock, not 
in a coach-and-four, but the two in a one-horse Brougham. Hack 
cabs drive up to Court : whence it fell out the. other day that a 
high and staunch pillar of the Country Party arrived in the 
Royal presence, appropriately enough, garnished with a streamer 
of straw. A sixpenny omnibus has come to be thought aristo- 
cratic and extravagant ; so has a fourpenny boat ; and the person 
who uses either must sit under the imputation of buying green 
peas at Christmas (or whenever green peas are the dearest). Ere 
I set out from Manchester, good Miss Le Grand, in a gush of 
advice and kindness at her prospect of temporary release from 
" the Radical ''of the Row — warned me, from her own experience, 
against the extortion of the Hackjioy Coachman. Why, sir, 
there is but one left : that rubicund and bottle-nosed functionary 
in Piccadilly, who is the Bashaw of the Reservoir, as rightfully as 
his opposite neighbour is Duke of Chatsworth — or the Lady in 
the corner, the Heiress of St. Millions. And he hath no vehicle 
to drive : is merely a waterman. I foresee trouble from this 
when I go home. My neighbour will never believe it ; — ^being apt, 

NO. XXXJ. — VOL. VI. B 



50 THE aSASDK OUT OF BEASOV. 

eren when she fancies she kiioirs least about any subjeet, to 
eharge "Republican persons'* with exaggeration — and piquing 
herself on the strength of her fond memory of a viedt to the 
metropolis in 1800, as giving " a tone " to our neighbouriiood. 

It is not many years ago (and since some persons think proper 
to entertain an. exaggerated notion of my age, which is detrimental 
to my circulation in London, I may as well here rectify what is a 
mistake) since I did the honours of our spinning-jennies, and 
print-works, to a great Transaiiantio Lady — ^the Miss Angela of 
New Tork«— who had crossed the Atlantic to visit everything in 
Europe. Her experiences of London .had been charmingly diver^ 
sified* She had sate on the platform in Exeter HaJ^ in the 
morning, behind the boming lights of the " Fiery Furnace;'' and 
afterwards juai dropped in at. Taglicmi's on that memorable 
noon, when dear, clever Lady Macarthy was teaching the Swedish 
" Poetess of Motion" (as the P(^t called her, long ere "the 

Swedish Nightingale" was thought of!) an Iridi jig! She 

was present when<the author of " The Joys of Memory " repre- 
sented the same,< by dancing a minuet. She witnessed that 
^ flash of silence** from the Honourable Member of blue and 
yellow renown, which, but for her testimony, might have passed.for 
one of rare Sydney's most hardy inventions. She saw Mr. 
Besom — then innocent of a title, a chateau en Etpetgne^ or a 
novel "which nobody owns" — keep his temper ; and Lord Never 
Froward lose his. She was the lady for whose sake Blair (not 
Blair of the Grave, nor he of Blair Adamyhxii Adam Blair of the 
Slaughterer) paused in his honourable warfare against the weaker 
sex, and made his one civil speech to a Woman : though the 
speech, after all, as- she repeated it, had a. sting in its tail. Like 
the modest, silent member aforesaid,, she had; dated a letter, or an 
order to her jeweUez^ — ^I forget whioh*--&om Windsor Oastle« She 
had " thrashed down " to Epsom in a. chariot and six — ^hatmg, as 
she further phrased it, to travel in <' a lumbering style." She had 
taken a whole house in the City^ and sate up all night there — " to 
see a Hanging ! ." We were amazingly entertained by her adven« 
tures: since, with all herill^direotedindusiry tosee, and to snatchy 
and to parade her goodvmanagement.and her "family cUamonds,'* 
-—the last a rather Ameriean propenuty, — she was a heaarty, true, 
shrewd woman. And,as her experiences were -asnongthe most vivid 
descriptions of London J ever heard, I suppose I may have looked 
Ont for some faint and^focKliataiit p«ctiei^paitk>n..in a: like round of 



THE SEASON OUT OF SEASON* 51 

fjAeasuies : sinee, i^rt of going, to Court, which in thig new reign 
k not the thing thftt' it used to be — and^ aa I pointed ont, is 
not a Yisit I am Hkely to pay — and dbort of the coaeh and six (just 
four herses beyond- my means) there are few things which we 
Mterary mencannot oempass. Everybody opens everything to us. 
Our antiohamber days are over* " The Garretteers that border on 
the sky/' as Sterne called them, sit above the salt and pepper ! 

But t^e sights Miss Maizey saw are gone : or else they have 
lost season and savour. Gold water has been thrown on the fires 
of Exeter HaU : nnce the last^ batch of missiimaries was eaten cold 
with cassava bread, (not by the natives of the Sandwich Islands), 
and sinee the Pope has grown so mneh more liberal than his 
Lordship of Exeter that there is a chanoe (Mrs. Blaekadder writes) 
of Roman Catholiaism' beeoming ihe Low chxach ! Lord Besom 
has taken to keeping his temper: and nobody minds him a bit the 
more for the change ! TagHom is daneing for Duchess Dollalolla, 
at Munich : a stoat Sulphide — ^ui»<|ualj ther^ore, it may be pre- 
sumed, to farther hints from the sprighUy Irish ladyv Elsskr 
revives ''the joys of memory in Bon Giovanni " — ^the last of the 
l^nets to be see&«: our men- of sci^iee having vainly tried to 
foisilizeihib^ pessons and costnmes of- that memorable Goiart ball at 
-which every one looked^ so ashamed^ and moved so awkwardly. 
The- iSi^»i^i{i0rer hath, opened its arms '*to the sexv:" — ^has 
taken ta writing entkusiasticallj about bibs and tuckers, caps and 
fioonoes, and is poanbly* hoaiding up the kiss of peaee for even 
(hat least ccnpronnsiDg of : the sisterhood, Harriet Martineau: by 
fmj of Wyoming her home from the Pyramids ! As for Hang* 
ingSj/* their daimu^ hath beeome huckaback." There has not 
lieen one worth going to, ^nee Ooarvoisier''s : and. methinks ' the 
deaerip^n of that, ^Michael Atogrio IMtmain^v hath closed the 
anbjeet. No BeU, in seardiof an. article, will heneefbrth sit up 
all nigfatt to< describe the grisly- spectacle^ shoiddieven a&Other of 
** theee wretohed foreigners " rise up naked to murder his master 
iff cold blood! l%e Gallows will presently be packed off to the 
Miiseam, along -witii the Billion and the Hackney Ooaoh'! 

But all( manner of sivoiig'- soisatsons and striking contrasts are 
«t a'diseomtt: . Mendielty is on the wane. The Beggar's whine 
win be soon ai lost note from.among the London crks^-for, sinoe 
Mendicants^ beyond: most^ people, follow the fashioDr; enjoy the 
deHeadea of the seasetn; frequentr favourite ^resorts, and indidge ih 
farced fiow^ers of speech, inenrionaiy mathematieal proportion with 

£2 



52 THE SEASON OUT OF SEASON. 

tieir clients, — ^how shall the Mumper, the Counterfeiter of Fits, 
the Proprietor of Seven Small Sickly Children, " make hoth end» 
meet,*' seeing that confusion hath been introduced into "the 
order*' — seeing that a real Palsy hath stricken Supplicants of 
rank and family. How shall even Jack-in-the-Green think it 
"the thing " to keep his toll-dish on May-day ? — now, that Sine- 
curism is as clean gone from White-Hall, as Sir John Soane's 
"frontispiece," and that Salt Hill hath lost its savour — Montem 
being no more ? 

What a step is here made ! What a delicious regeneration of 
the infirmities of the higher classes ! Their crutches burnt I 
their lame legs compelled to be put to the ground ! the paint> 
washed out of their sore eyes, and handed over to the Ethiopian 
Serenaders ! Here is a vast improvement with a vengeance — ^no, 
with a beneficence — to all concerned ! And in spite of Bosa" 
Matilda^s tears, and the tearings of her hair, at the shame whicb 
has come upon " the old Etonians ; " from their being hindered^ 
henceforth, from running down to the mud at Slough, in pink 
satin buskins — or charging Peasecod-street, in the guise of very* 
new Crusaders — in spite of " the fine old English gentleman"" 
being bemoaned over as extinct, because, in the completion of his- 
studies, the course of mountebank-i5m is left out — ^in spite of 
one show the less, the departure of which, as the Cremome 
Prophet awfully said, may foreshadow the exit of even Gog and 
Magog (now, especially, when Lord Mayors are beginning to give 
literary dinners!) — I for one feel that a spot is wiped off our 
character. I rejoice the honour of work is asserted in our highest 
classes, as more honourable than riding in a sedan chair, with a 
muff and a chapeau-hras, as the Younger Son was content to do in 
1747 — ^to carry scandals from the chocolate-house to the china 
auction. I am siure that Scholarship gets a lift by every measure 
which dissociates it from Mummery. Those, at all events, who 
cling to ancient a5-usages, are now driven to seek their philosophy 
and connection among ladies of Bethany and Queens of Ansarey,. 
like Tancred the Crusader. The bell has rung, too, or I mistake 
not, which will clear the course of English life, of the thimbles 
and the dice-box. Ladies of quality are no longer brought before 
our Hard wicks and Maltbys for keeping Faro banks on Sunday 
evening, as happened to the Countess of Buckinghamshire, Lady 
E. Luttrell, Mrs. Strutt, and Mrs. Concannon, fifty years since. 
Crockford's is a booth, to which the bevy of gingerbread-coloured 



THE SEASON OUT OF SEASON. 53 

ladies fails to attract even the most rapacious and inexperienced of 
eoontry clowns. Discredit hath come down on debts of honour, 
since the Usurer and the JJBuress have so prominently figured in 
the Bankruptcy Courts along with the hotel- waiter^ the breeches- 
maker, and the wine (or blacking) merchant, as thq. Poor Noble's 
friend. — ^But "the Season," as Miss Le Grand would say, is 
soniewhat the worse for all these new-fangled ameliorations. Its 
signs are dying out, one by one ; its times getting less and less 
marked ; its features considerably mollified. There are hints of 
such astoimding possibilities as a sociable September and an 
October Opera ; there are fears of a dearth — that the yearly crop 
of grass in Grosvenor-square may fail, owing to the disturbance 
of comers and goers, at a time, when erst the Shepherd and the 
Haymaker had it all their own way there. 

In one point, however, this breaking down of land-marks — ^this 
decline and fall of Exclusiveism — ^this opening of close boroughs-— 
this making of Fop's-alley a railway terminus, and of Parliament 
a place where sense is spoken and carried out, not speeches 
performed (Mr. Benjamin — last of the Grimaldi race — ^being 
the exception which proveth the rule) — ^all this distribution and 
intercourse — I say — this division of interests and destruction of 
orergrown despotisms, may have an eflfect, for the moment, less 
agreeable than some of those just indicated. The Book of the 
Season — the Play of the Season — ^the Picture of the Season — 
where be they ? Somewhere else : — like the child of Dr. 
Syntax, "gone because they never came." Think not that 
I mean disrespect to Dombey ; nor meditate mischief upon 
Maclise ; nor talk treason against Turner (being in mortal fear 
of the Oxford Graduate, whose Turner-o/atry accepts every 
marvel : "Fallacies of Hope,'* Brobdignag cabbages, and canary- 
eoloured statues of the Duke, swimming in scarlet lights not 
excepted). I am loyal to Landseer, and eke to Lough ; 
yrelcomed White to the. Wells, with his clever drama, as cordially 
as any one of the. hundreds who applauded it.^ I believe 
devoudy that Wigan will figure among the "famous old actors," 
in the Ana or Elia of the Lamb or Hazlitt of the twentieth century. 
No, Grace be thanked 1 (putting the present company of editor 
and correspondent out of the question) there is not the lack of 
genius among us, which the Croakers would fain have us believe. 
The book is not closed — ^the door not shut — ^the spring not dried — 
^he taper is high above the socket : but this quick and earnest 



5 THE SEASON OtTT OF SEASOV. 

and unirenal awakening of mind, is not * wholly clear of c<»i8»- 
queneee, which hayesone outward Btgns, common also to &e fniits 
of dissipation. It is, perhaps, more .difiicult now than ibrmerij, 
to concentrate either effort or attrition. 'Patience in production^ 
care in appreciation, are not the efodemic yirtues df ear epoch. 
We may hecome used to the speed at which theworid goes ; we 
must — since affairs more on nobly, healthily, and wisely. And 
with our progress, retreats for the thinker and creator will foe 
proyided, as snr^y as occnpation for the pioneer, ^e exoayator, 
and the mechanician ; but in the meantime we are Bomewhat 
dizzy ; unwilling — perhaps unable — ^to riyet our eyes on anygiyen 
point. Though the stuff whereof Hermm is made be cried in the 
streets and «dld in the market-s — a thing plenteoBs and accessible, 
as compared with what it was in Ihe times when the few held it — 
the Chief in his tower, the Monk in his cell, or the Solitary dis> 
coyerer in his scrip — it does not follow that ^'the season" shall 
produce its Hero ; and it follows as little that the worid shall 
come to an end for lack thereof ! 

But enough — ^I sate down thinking no' harm ; simply to write .a 
letter to Halcyon Eow, telling my wife and our friends what my 
boy and I haye done in London during "the season ;'* and here 
am I, wandering Off so wide and «o wildly, that my Mrs. Bell, 
I know, will stuff my paper into the fire with a " Fudge ! the man 
has been dining out with some of those Germans ; and come 
home, as he always does after, in asmoke." It is too late now, i 
fear, to be dear and concise this mon1ii--i'to narrate how my 
Samson has caught a famous likeness of Duke Constantino, the i^«ar, 
if not the Lion. of "the season "--^and another of Grown Prince 
Oscar, who, my boy hopes, is not come to be its Bore : too late 

to repeat what and and and said to me witii 

regard to my poor productions — or to tabulate the state of the better 
classes during this strange time of scarcity ; beyond the fact, aa 
yet undiyulged in The P<»^, that the Marchioness of Whortleberry, 
instead of Dancing 'Teas, is this year issuing cards for a series of 
Indian Com Dinners. Of these, and sundry yet more interesting 
facts and passages, another day. Since the season is getting, 
year by year, more and more " out of season," who knows but 
that we may treat Ardwidk to our ' Memoranda on May Fair m 
September ? 



55 



A VOICE FROM THE CROWD IN A STEAM-BOAT. 

BY ANGUS B. REACH. 



A GABFET-BAO is an article which proyerbially can never be so 
full bat that it can be made to hold more. In this respect of un- 
limited accommodation, howeter, I wouM back a riyer steamer 
against the most elastic repository of shirts innumerable, socks 
incakulaHe, and razcnrs and brashes without end. The art of 
packing has certainly been most assiduously studied by the direc- 
tors of the mercantile steam marine between Greenwich and 
Battersea. Spanish slavers are tolerably esrpert at it ; and one of 
the illustrated papers published sometime since a diagram shewing 
the diabolical ingenuity with which every crevice and cranny could 
be stuffed and crammed with black flesh. Sure I am, however, 
that 4he captains and mates of the Watermen and the Citizens 
would be able to give a practical lesson in the mystery of making 
the smallest space available for the gr^itest number, to the most 
experienced slaving commander who ever threw his niggers over- 
board in barrels, when chased by a British cruiser. 

There is, in fact, a sort of mid-passage being established 
between the West End and the City. The unhappy cargoes are 
conveyed at the rate of a small copper money per head ; and it 
is only to the lucky fact that the passengers are stowed away on 
deck, and not in the fore-cabin and saloon, that we -are indebted 
to the absence of deplorable paragraphs in the daily papers, 
setting forth that the Bee or the Cricket had arrived at the 
Adelphi with a loss of 40 per cent, of her cargo, the survivors 
b&ving k&nded in a very weakly and exhausted condition. 

Sunday sees every week the climax to this abominable traffic 
in hnman flesL The boats then appear huge clusters of 
humanity clinging together like swarming bees round the smok* 
ing-ftumel. Away they go, rolling and careening from starboard 
to port~-*nothing but the resistance offered on either side by the 
paddle-wheels, and the ballast afforded by the engine, which hap- 
pily cannot come on deck, to prevent them toppling clean over, 
and shovelling every living item of their contents into the river. 

Aad Bome day they will. We cannot expect eternally to owe 



56 A VOICE FROM THE CROWD IN A STEAM-BOAT. 

everything to good luck, and nothing at all to good management. 
The terrible example which we always require to precede a reform, 
we shall one day have ; and then, merciful powers ! when the 
thief bestrides the stolen steed, with what a bang will we slam to 
the stable-door ! Not, indeed, that there will be any certainty of 
a change for the better, if it be only a boat load of mere imknown, 
contemptible nobodies, which is hurled into the Thames. To 
ensure the public safety on the Rails, Sidney Smith desiderated 
the burning of a Bishop. We shall be more moderate still. For 
the sake of the lawful travellers from London Bridge to Battersea, 
we only demand the drowning of an Alderman. 

Can anything be more reasonable ! Consider — only an alder- 
man. The ship may be lost for the lack of a pen'orth of tar. 
Give us the dab of saving pigment — ^the mud which shall enshrine 
the rotund beauty of the civic hero — dead — ^perished in most alien 
cold water — that the citizens over whom he ruled — ^for whom he 
died — ^might safely, and comfortably, and pleasantly, enjoy a blow 
on the river I 

As I have said, sooner or later the catastrophe will arrive. 
Picture the scene — ^the black roaring mass of man and woman- 
kind — ^plunged in one fearful avalanche into the surging river — 
fighting — choaking — screaming — battling with each other — 
clinging to each other — settling by clusters bound together in the 
gripe of death — convulsed, tortured things — ^into the fat black 
ooze over which roUs the cold dim water. How the news would 
thrill through London ! Three hundred — four hundred — five 
hundred — lives lost at a blow ! Conceive the popular excitement 
— the popular fury ! What invective — what passionate abuse ! 
How the directors of the company would come in for it — how Par- 
liament — how Government would come in for it ! Why were such 
things permitted ? Why was an avaricious company allowed, for 
the sake of the last hundred coppers, to send into eternity hun- 
dreds of souls, and plunge into misery thousands of families. Aye, 
why was it ? Only it strikes me that, with a slight variation, the 
question might as well be put before, as after the catastrophe. 
Why is it, that we allow the risk to continue for a single day ? 

Look forward beyond the gloom cast by the shadow of the 
coming event. The law will then begin to be sternly enforced 
upon the point. Government inspectors will have a station on 
every pier— check-takers for steamers, like their brethren in 
theatres, will cry " boat full " — and dam back the advancing 



A TOICE FROM THE CROWD IN A STEAM-BOAT. 57 

masses ; or perhaps legislation will in the first instance be 
requisite. The Secretary for the Home Department will give 
notice, '* amid loud cries of hear, hear," of his intention to 
bring in a bill for the prevention in future of the overloading of 
6team->boats on the Thames, and the other rivers of England. 
The night for the introduction of the measure will come. The 
House will be densely crammed and anxiously silent. The Noble 
Lord or the Right Honourable Gentleman will rise. He will 
recal to the remembrance of honourable members thelate fatal 
catastrophe. He will pay a passing tribute of regret to the 
memoiy of the sufferers — but he will not attempt to conceal the 
fact, of how much the apathy of Parliament and the public had 
to do with the calamity. His. bill will, so far as legislation can 
do it, go to prevent the recurrence of like horrors. It will 
contain machinery which shall effectually prevent it from rotting — 
a dead legislative carcass — like a crushed fly, between the leaves 
of the statute-book. It wiU do its work, and there will be men 
to work it. Nobody can either drive a coach-and-six, or steer a 
steam-boat through it — ^the mesh of its clauses will catch little 
fish, and will not break away before great ones. It will say, in 
short, to steam-boat companies and captains — *' Thus far shall 
ye load and no further." And the bill will be hailed by accla- 
mation. In Commons and Lords — it will rattle through its 
necessary stages merrily and fast, and three weeks after its 
introduction to. the world — it will have shot up to the dignity 
of enrolment amongst the Statutes at large. The following 
Sunday a trip upon the water will be delightful. 

But, en (Utendant — ere the drowning and the reformation come 
— ^who are the governors of the River — ^who are responsible for 
the liberties taken with Father Thames? The city asserts a 
feeble authority. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen conserve the 
river annually — by consuming turtle soups, and quaffing iced 
punch on board the Maria Wood. Last year they made a 
vigorous effort — travelled gallantly to Oxford by land, and 
then made their way back valiantly to London by water — 
happily without setting fire to the silent highway by which 
they journeyed. Very well — ^the Mansion House arrogates to 
itself some right to look after the Thames. Farther — it occa- 
sionally raises a forcible feeble note of objection to passengers 
being crammed into Thames steamers — ^like Yarmouth bloaters 
into barrels of brine. 



58 A YOZGE FROM THE CROWD IS A BTEAM-BOAT. 

In the eoM days of early Spring— when East wind and 
drenching sleet and rain eome laslung down our London streets 
-^and when nobody will dare the ioy blasts of the liver who 
has got a shilling to pay for a eab-— or twofenee for an omnibus, 
or who is proTided with a conple of useable legs to walk 
withal — when the steamers ply up and down, drij^ing and 
deserted things — one shap^ess mass of oil-skins at ike wheel, 
another on the paddle-box — ^then it is that the corporation of 
London siiddenly wake up to the danger of ovw-crowded and 
too-fast-driTen boats. An entiuisiastic discussion aeeordingly 
takes place in the Common Council or the Court of Alder* 
men, and a eode of bye-laws of terrific severity is forth* 
with drawn up and established, mmiacing with horrible pains 
and penalties the reckless skippers who shall dare to con- 
travene them. The whole proceeding looks severe and deter- 
mined. Nervous people nod their heads approvingly, and say^ 
'* All right now— -the Lord Mayor has taken the thing up in 
a proper spirit. These fellows won't be overloading thw 
boats again in a hurry." Alas — deluded folks ! «Wait a bit. 
Blazing summer eomes — and sweltering London rushes on the 
river. Wh«-e are ^e City bye4aws then? Where are the 
informers who were to work them — where the stipulations allotting 
to each passenger a certain cubic space upon the deck ? Gone — 
melted with the hot weather — leaving the City statute-book a 
tabula rasa for the inscription of the same £arce at the eom- 
m^icemoht of the next mayoralty. 

And yet, Heaven knows, if ^e nuisance be still uncorrected^ 
it is not for want of nuisance* mongers and grievance-hunters in 
the connnunity. Only these gentifemen are eternally catching 
wrong sows by the- ear. They are the cranes who wage war witii 
the pigmies. A parcel of ragged urchins playing pitch-and-toes 
with dilapidated buttons in an alley — an advertising van or two ; 
not half such an obstade in a crowded thoroughfare as a sheriff's 
broad-wheeled waggon, and not a tithe so ugly in its gaudiness as 
that worshipful functionary's official coach— a dozen or two of 
emancipated mechanics and maids-of-all-work enjoying themselves 
in the merry go-rounds at the foot of Primrose Hill ; or a knot 
of hard«>working, honest men, scouring their skins in a cheap bath 
and wash-house — ^suoh are the objects which the nuisance-mon- 
gers—or rather the superlative nuisance-monger— of the day 
delights to show his vigilance in rooting up and exhibiting to the 



gil&e of aiwoi'ld--*by BO'iaeaiis fio iFetymuch seandftlised at the 
ipectaele. Sir Peter Laorie ie 'O S cvciybodj knows — a pestilent 
iRHry^body, always deep in some mare's neiit or other, and yet 
ceeasionally making a blundering step — more by chanoe than 
anything else — in theright direction. Now, here is a chance for 
him. Let him t&ke to the ftteam*boat&iii«ance. He flatters him- 
self ihat he has pit 4own smcide ; let him try his hand ai putting 
down a system which may result in occasioning as many deaths 
in a moment as the mania for self^slaughter doe^ in atwelremonth. 
Let him £&Fsake Piimrose Hill on the Sunday- afternoons, and 
take his «taiid on Hungerford Bridge — let him observe the cram, 
the squeeze of <joBtiiDg men and women, hurrying, in unthinking 
merry masses, on board the roekiug and unstable boats — ^let him 
obserre ilie conduct of the steam-boat functionaries jamming the 
liTe eargees on board- as though they were packing cotton into a 
bale — 4et him obserre the i»ckly sway of the boats, as each slowly 
Bi0Y«s away, groaning under its weight of human flesh — ^let him 
see all this, and -let hun ^remember, that all this is perpetrated in 
defiance of the magnates of the City — ^and their solemnly recorded 
regulations — let him obserre that the interpretation put upon the 
City bye-laws, seems to be that they are laws for the City to giro 
the go-by to, and if, out of such materials, he cannot erect a 
grieyance of the first magnitude— cannot carve a nuisance of the 
first ' water— <-then will I be content to be on board the first steamer 
which pitches its living nsasses head over heels, to drown in 
Thames water, and to rot in Thames mud. 



TOUNG WATSON ; OR, THE RIOTS OF 1816. 
IN FOUR PARTS.— PART I. 



In the following narrative, it is not our intention to enter into 
all the details connected with the Riots of 1816, or to dwell upon 
the merits of arguments urged for or against the outbreak of the 
2nd of December. Such an attempt would far exceed our limits^ 
The object of the present papers is to place before the public such 
Hactsas they are unacquainted with, and to give, it is to be hoped, 
not an uninteresting account of the extraordinary escapes and 
adventures of that rash but enthusiastic young man, whose name, 
in connection with the above riots, formed at the time so varied a 



60 YOUNG WATSON. 

subject of conjecture and discourse, of popular excitement and 
unsatisfied curiosity. And the reader must not look upon it as a 
very vain or hazardous statement, when he is told that all specu- 
lation as to what became of Young Watson during the interval of 
three months, during the time of his rescue from Beckwith's 
house, on Snow Hill, and his subsequent escape to America, must 
ever have remained unsatisfied, but for the narrative about to be 
placed before him. 

The intention of these papers is to trace Young Watson, 
through his many escapes and adventures, and to relate the par- 
ticulars of his concealment, together with the interesting facts 
connected with his ultimate flight from the kingdom. 

To render these details intdligible, and to make use of such 
material as we have before us, it will be necessary to give a brief 
outline of the state of the then times, and the oppressive hardships 
under which the people groaned, and whose many complaints un- 
noticed, led to such imhappy results. Goaded to desperation by 
grievances alike intolerable and unredressed, the Ministry won- 
dered that " miserable wretches, reduced iio the lowest poverty 
and distress," should employ force, where petitions and remon- 
strance had proved abortive. 

The accumulated evils of the time we write of, were sufficiently 
manifested by the frequent riots in all parts of the country. The 
Press gave daily accounts of fresh outbreaks in the chief towns of 
England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, whose further violence 
was alone kept in check by military power. 

The Corn-law question then, as now, was a theme of all-engross- 
ing interest, and petitions poured from all quarters into both 
Houses against its adoption. From the City of London alone one 
was presented containing the extraordinary number of 40,571 
signatures, all obtained within ten hours. 

On March 6th, 1815, a series of outbreaks took place upon the 
question of the Com Bill. Crowds of people surrounded both 
Houses of Parliament, who menaced the members on their passage 
to the House, and their persons were treated roughly or other- 
wise, according as their opinions were for or against the Bill ; and 
an honourable gentleman thought himself fortunate to escape 
from the rough usage of the mob, with the loss of his coat-tails. 
In this emergency the military was called out, and the Horse 
Guards suppressed the tumult. 

Driven from Westminster, the mob repaired to other parts of 






YOUNG WATSON. 61 

the town, and broke the windows of the houses of such members 
as were in favour of the Bill ; the doors of athers were forced, 
and the furniture destroyed. Lord Castlereagh's residence^ was 
attacked, and the house of Mr. Robinson (the mover of the Com 
regulations) was twice assaulted. Here two innocent persons were 
killed by fire-arms discharged from the windows, and the Horse 
Guards were again called out to quell the disturbance. Lord 
Chancellor Eldon's house in Bedford Square was also broken open 
by the infuriated mob, when, through the agency of a friend. Lady 
Eldon, and the Great Seal, '' the two things he (Lord Eldon) 
most valued," were conveyed over the wall into the gardens of 
the British Museum. 

Incendiary fires, frame-machine breaking, and other outrages, 
also characterised the period we write of. The distress among 
the colliers was excessive, and these imhappy men went drawing 
waggons of coals about the country, in the hopes to obtain relief 
for their necessities. " Willing to work, but none of us will beg," 
was the inscription on the placard they carried, and the men, ** who 
behaved themselves extremely well," received in many instances 
the relief they so much needed. 

The following petition frem the Mayor and Corporation of the 
City of London (although presented a week after our present date), 
fully exhibits the distress of the times. The petition entreated 
the Prince Regent ''to take into consideration the scenes of 
privation and sufiering that everywhere exist, and the distress and 
misery which has become intolerable ; the commercial, manu- 
facturing, and the agricultural interests, equally sinking under 
its pressure, and the impossibility to find employment for a 
large mass of the population;" and further set forth, "the 
unexampled increase of the Civil List, the enormous sums paid 
for unmerited pensions and sinecures, and a long course of the 
most lavish and improvident expenditure, in every branch of 
government, all arising from the corrupt and inadequate state of 
Sie representation of the people in Parliament, whereby all con- 
trol over the servants of the Crown has been lost, and Parliaments 
become subservient to the will of Ministers." To this petition the 
Prince Regent replied, " It is with strong feelings of surprise and 
regret that I receive the address and petition," &c. ; plainly 
showing the apathy and utter disregard paid by the Ministry to 
the complaints of the people. 

These particulars of distress and grievance, " the effects of rash 



62 TOUNG WATSON. 

and minotts wars, tmjustlj commoiieed, and ^rtinaeiously per- 
sisted in/' through whieh '*the people yr&^ orerwhehned with 
taxation they were unable to bear against^ Ijirough forcing the 
Bouil>ons on the thro&e of Franee against* the will. of the Eren^ 
people/' these, and other particuliffs of the general 8u£fermg, 
will prepare the reader for Ihe OTMits that followed, and pare the 
way for the reception of oar narrative, and the more immediate 
causes that led this rash, but not imworthy young man, and others 
who thought and felt as he did, to the eommissimi of an outbreak, 
alike unwise in act, as unhappy in- result. 

We will new introduce our readers to the charaeter and perscm. 
of Young Watson — about whom so much was said, and of whose 
almost' miracukyus escapes nothing has been known. 

Dr. Watson — the father of this young man — ^resided at Ljim, 
in Norfolk, wh^re for many years he had lived in the zeroise of 
his profesedon, and whose family and connexions were highly 
respectable. His son James (Toung Watson) was designed by 
his father for a surgeon, and, instructed by him in that professkuiy 
had for some short time exencised his acquirements on board ship» 
Sensible of the burthens under whieh himself and countless thou- 
sands of his countrymen were hewed down. Dr. Watson took an 
aetive part in all political questions^ and some short period before 
our narrative oommenees, came to London with his son, in the 
hope of advantageously exercising his medical talents in the 
Metropolis. 

Dr. Watson was a needy num^ and his first home in Lond^i 
(we believe) was in Hyde Street, Bloomsbury. The politieal 
agitation of the time found in him a ready advocate, and he became 
a m^odber of various political societies^ and spoke at several pubHe 
meetings upcm. subjects the most in debate. His son, Jamee 
Watson, a young man of ardrait temperament, taught by hia 
father's example^. became about this time politieally known. 

The p^sen of Young Watsen, in the ** offioial " portrMtnre of 
hvaXf was inaceura^y described. He wus stated to be '* Five 
feet four or five inches in height ; sHm made, with dark browifc 
hair, and sallow oomplexioB,*' wha!ea8 he did not exceed five feet 
three inches in h^ght, stout made, with lightish brown hair^ and 
ruddy complexion. He attained his twenty->first year, the 24th. 
of January, 1817, during the period of his eoneealment — ^'^H^ 
was" — to use the words of a MS. now bef<»re us, and written alL 
the time he speaks of, to his protect<ff» ** a young^ man. of great 



rOUNO WATSOK. 63 

w»inth of feeling ; he knew not how to repress or diagniBe the 
workings of his heart; he wbs firank and sincere ; zecJous and 
perseT^ing, and.had.aoquired sereral aeeomplishments. He was 
tolerably read, had oome knowledge of Fr^aieh^ and was studying 
Greek and Latin. The medieal profession he had, in part^ 
acquired under his father's tuition. Hd was generous and humane. 
At the recital of a distressing story he could not repress his tears, 
and the dktresaefi of his country droTe him. to madness ! " 

Suefa i» the person and character of Young Watson, written, by 
the late Mr. HoU, the eminent engrayer, who, wholly uneon- 
Beeted with politics, an entire strangei* both to his foonily and 
per«m. and solely pwmpted by a feeling of ham«ily, gave him 
shelter and proteeiion for the space of nearly three months, at a 
time whemiiiouaands were set upon his head, as w^ as a heavy 
reward ofiered for tha disoo^ ^hi. concealer, and death for ^ 
punishment ! 

The surprising escapes of thid young man, that he should hare 
fallen into the handa dl strangers, and been befriended by them at 
the risk of their own livee^ through every trial and temptation, and 
his fbal eseape firom the kingdom, under circumstanees the most 
trying and extraordinaiy, are no less a subject of wonder than 
rejoieing, since, in his^. other lives were involved ; for it is not to 
be doubted, . that had Yojmg Watson been taken^ the utmost 
penalty of the law would not only have been enforced on him, but 
on others involved in like jeopardy, and who only escaped in con- 
sequmee of his noiB-%|^rehension. 

It is not our wish to- champion the motives that induced Young 
Watsein to resort to violotl measures.. The folly of the outbr^k^ 
and the unhappy, reaidts that attended* it, are too .well known to 
cequire oomm^it* 

Having placed, before our readers a brief outline of affairs illus^ 
trative of the period, we now proceed to astat^nent of such events 
aa more immedifd^y preceded the riots of the 2nd of Deoembex. 

The high prioe of bread had caused insurrections in different 
parts of the covntry- At Bridport a disturbance broke out, and^ 
aimed with various weapons,, the people- threatened to march to 
London.. At.Nosrwich, and at Brandon, similar, outbreaks took 
place, and a quartern loaf was borne tlu'ough- the streets on a 
pole — the avowed obj^ of the riotera being " a. reduction in the 
price of bread and meat/* 

The payment of taxes, witbimt the right of TOting — ^the impri- 



64 TOUNO WATSON. 

Bonment of men at the will of a Secretary of State, or upon 
information of hired spies — ^thcse and many other sources of public 
discontent led to the formation of Societies, and the assembling of 
meetings, at which popular men held forth upon the many griev- 
ances under which the country suffered. At a meeting held at 
Westminster (September 11th), it was proposed by Mr. Hunt, 
" that a petition be presented to the Prince Regent, to call the 
Parliament together, once more to receive the Petition of Rights 
and listen to the prayer of the people, and determine whether 
they would give them justice, or wait till they took it ;'* and 
further, '' that the people should call upon Lord Gastlereagh (then 
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs), to caution the Piince 
how he refused to listen to the voice of the peoplej though Lord 
Gastlereagh' s courage and impudence were equal to anything, and 
to advise his Royal master to remember the fate of the Stuarts, 
or of Charles the First, on the scaffold at Whitehall.'' 

" The real cause of the people's suffering," said Sir Francis 
Burdett, *' was a corrupt House of Commons, whose corruption 
had been openly avowed, and that Lord Gastlereagh had been 
exposed trafficking in the seats of the House, for which (to use 
his own words in the House, March 10th, 1815), the noble lord 
ought to lose his head ;" and that '< the Prince Regent ought to 
be petitioned to take into consideration the condition of the 
suffering and patient people." 

A meeting was held at Spa-fields about a fortnight preceding 
our present date, assembled chiefly at the instigation of Mr. 
Henry Hunt, for the purpose of presenting a petition to the 
Prince Regent, " from the distressed manufacturers and mecha- 
nics." By means of hand-bills dispersed over London, the people 
were invited to attend at the same place on Monday, December 
2nd, in order to hear the answer to their petition. 

A considerable crowd assembled on the day appointed about 
the *' Merlin's Cave " public-house at Spa-flelds, anxiously 
awaiting the appearance of Mr. Hunt. About twelve o'clock 
another crowd, with tri-coloured flags and a banner, entered, a 
different part of the field, in the midst of which a waggoii, 
covered with boards, drew up. The banner bore on one side the 
following inscription :— 

** Nature — to feed the hungry ; 
Truth — ^to protect the oppressed ; 
Justice — to punish crime ;" 
and on the other was inscribed — 



YOUNG WATSON. 65 

** The brare soldiers are our brothers — ^treat them kindly." 

The waggon was ascended by several persons, among whom 
were Doctor Watson and his son. The Doctor harangued the 
multitude, enlarging upon their wrongs and sufferings. His son. 
Young Watson, succeeded him — or, to use the words of the 
** Chronicle," of December 12th — ** a young man, whose name is 
stated to be Watson, genteelly dressed, with a tri-coloured cockade 
in his hat, mounted a waggon covered with banners, and addressed 
the mob in a long speech." At the conclusion of his address, in 
which he lamented *' the ill success of the petition," he asked the 
crowd, among whom were about two himdred sailors, " if they 
would protect him?" The shouted reply was, "As long as we 
have life!" Upon this Young Watson, who had a flag in his 
hand, cried out, ** All who love liberty, follow me !" and leaped 
from the waggon. Limbrick, the Hatton-garden officer, drew his 
cutlass and seized him ; but the people soon rescued him, and, 
followed by a numerous crowd, left the field, passed through 
ClerkenweU, and so on to Smithfield. 

• On reaching Skinner-street, Snow-hill, the mob halted opposite 
the house of Mr. Beckwith, the gun-maker, and, a cry for *• arms" 
being raised, they attacked the shop. Young Watson, being 
somewhat in advance, entered with a cocked pistol in his hand, 
and demanded arms ! Mr. Flatt, a relative of Mr. Beckwith, was 
in the shop at the time, and at the moment Watson entered, 
sprang upon him, and attempted to seize the pistol. A struggle 
ensued, and Mr. Flatt, being a tall, powerful man, nearly suc- 
ceeded in taking it from him. 

Mr. Piatt had caught the wrist of his right arm, and Young 
Watson, to prevent accident or harm either to himself or Mr. 
Flatt, as likewise to a boy who was in the shop, attempted to 
discharge the pistol at the walls or ceiling. Mr. Flatt now made 
a desperate attempt to wrest the weapon from him ; in the 
struggle the pistol was discharged, and Mr. Flatt was imfortu* 
nately wounded in the abdomen. 

This is Young Watson's own account of the transaction, &nd 
made under the most solemn protestations. 

That the injury inflicted was the result of accident is most 
probable, as a man intending to kill another — and the report was, 
that he had walked into the shop and deliberately flred at Mr. 
Flatt — ^would aim at the head or breast, certainly not at the 
abdomen ! And again, the probability is, the pistol was only 

KO. XXXI. — ^VOL. VI. F 



9& TOUIi^a WAXfi<^« 

charged with, wadding, Biace, had it contaiaed a ball, the waand 
xpost likdj would have pi^ved mortal — at all> eveuts, no ball was 
ever found. It is certain he had no intention of injuring liibu 
Piatt, by the fact of his offering his professional aid immediatelj 
after the accident, when, expressing his sorrow, he exclaiBSted, 
'^ I am a surgeon, sir ; allow me to dress your wound." 
. His assistance was, howerer, refused by Mr. Piatt, and seyerat 
persons entering the shop, a constable was sent for (Worrel), into 
whose charge Young Watson was given, who, after emptying hia 
pockets of their contents — ''a pound, and some silv^," two 
lancets, ^c. — conducted him up stairs to a back room on the 
second floor, by way c^ concealment and security. 

Young Watson was now, to all appearance, in safe custody, and 
his life forfeited! 

The mob, previously gathered aboui the house, had moved 
forward^ under the impression that their leader had gone on ; and» 
|>ut for the generous devotion of the ill-fated Cashman, a sailor 
who had joined the crowd, Young Watson's fate had dottbtlesa 
been sealed. The generosity of Cashman saved the life of Wataon» 
but sacrificed his own. 

. Having ascertained that the ''young man" (such was tha 
name Watson was recognised by through that eventful day) was 
a prisoner in the house, and although a total stranger to hijD:t — t^ 
it was stated he had only left Deptford that morning — Cashman 
)mrried after those who had gone before, with a man named 
Hooper at their head, when, to use his expression, Cashman 
<' nearly pulled the skirts off his coat," in his anxiety to bring hifia 
and the mob back to the reseue of the " young man." 

Urged by the solicitations of poor Cashman, the crowd returned 
shouting to the house of Mr. Beckwith. 

Young Watson, hearing the disturbance in the streets, nmde a 
^udden spring at the constable, drove him on one side, and ruidied 
from the apartment where he was concealed, to the window of the 
second floor front room, at which he presented himself. At the 
sight of him the mob became outrageous, and commenced a. vicdent 
attack upon the house. 

The constable, who had followed him, terrified by the shouts of 
the mob, ran down stairs, and escaped out of the window, and so 
over some buildings at the back of the house, and Young WataoA, 
without opposition, descended to the first fioor, where he saw 
geveral ladies in great alarm and consternation. He endeavoured 



roma watsok. 6? 

to qiiset iheir fears, hj assuriixg tbem ''that no injury ailould 
happen to them, and that he would protect their persons and 
]^?opertj iriih hka life." 

. On re-enterh^ the shop, he was greeted by hfS deliverers with 
abouts and aeeiaanations. He here loaded his pistols, and, seeing 
some attempts made to force open a desk in the counting-house, 
be declared '*he wcmld blow out the brains of any man who 
should attempt to yiolate prirate property." This threat had the 
desired offset, and Mr. Beckwith's house, sare of the arms, was 
:4eft untouched. The mob having now supplied themselves with 
guns, pistols, powder, and ball, left the house with Young Watson 
at their head. 

The news of the attack on Mr. Beckwith's spread rapidly, and 
sh(^ were closed in every direction ; business was suspended, and 
the greatest alarm was felt throughout the City. The rioters 
froeee^d down Newgate-street, towards the Bank. Passing a 
silversmith's shop in Cheapeide, some of the mob evinced a desire 
to rifle it of its shining contents. The repeated threat of Watson 
"to shoot any man who touched private property," however, pre*- 
vented the attempt, and the mob, huzzaing, proceeded ini marching 
order towards the Royal Exchange. They were met by the Lord 
Mayor and a party of police. Here Hooper and Cashman were 
taken, having strayed into Swithin's AUey. 

The main body of rioters, ignorant that any of their party were 
taken, proceeded towards the Minories. Such is Young Watson's 
account, although the press of the time states, *' that the rioters, 
finding the gates of the Exchange closed against them, fired over 
the top and under the bottom of the gates, at the Lord Mayor 
and his party, bat without injuring any one." 

Affrived at the Minories, the mob broke open the gunsmiths* 
shops, and possessed themselves, not only of arms, but two small 
field-pieces, and held possession of that part of the town for some 
eonsiderable time. They next proceeded to attack the soldiers in 
Aldgate High-street, but were beaten back, and retreated towards 
the Tower, when, finding theoMelves incapable of securing that, 
or any other important place, the mob began to disperse m 
detached bodies ; for, though Young Watson had displayed the 
greatest promptitude and presence of mind throughout the day, he 
coaM not produce anything like subordination among his followers, 
except, indeed, among some fifty sailors, whom he fwmed in 
toleraible order in the Minories. Soon after three o'clock tran- 

r2 



68 TOtJNG WATSON. 

quillity was restored within the City. Guards were stationed in 
the Bank ; the East London Militia, the City Light Horse, and 
Artillery Company, were under arms ; and the night was rendered 
tranquil hy numerous patrols of horse parading the streets. 
Disturhances having manifested themselves at Lamheth ahout four 
o'clock, military marched over Westminster-bridge — Foot Guards, 
Dragoons, and Artillerymen — all with bayonets fixed, or swords 
drawn. At the Mansion-house, Newgate-street, the Old Bailey, 
and Blackfriars-road, soldiers were stationed all night, and infantry 
with piled arms, ready for action, were assembled in the Bird- 
cage-walk, 

Thus terminated the riots of the 2nd of December. 

Having placed our readers in possession of the facts connected 
with these unhappy occurrences, we proceed to the statement of 
such matter as they are wholly unacquainted with. 

At the conclusion of this unfortunate day, Young Watson made 
his way to a house in Greystoke-place, where he met Thistle- 
wood, and a person of the name of Preston — ^his companions in 
the exploits and follies of the day. Here they consulted about a 
refuge for him (Young Watson), as there was no doubt he would 
be hunted for far and wide, and a price set upon his head. His 
person, too, being well known, he would be easily identified. It 
was proposed by Thistlewood (whom, we need hardly say, was the 
same who, a few years after, suffered the extreme penalty of the 
law for the foolish affair designated " the Cato-street Conspiracy,**) 
to conduct him to some of his (Watson*s) friends in Lincoln- 
shire. 

While engaged in busy consultation, a knock was heard at the 
door ! This caused them considerable alarm, naturally conceiving 
they had been watched, and traced to their present retreat. It 
proved, however, as was afterwards discovered, to be a friend who 
had called to see Preston. After some further consultation, thej 
repaired to the lodgings of Doctor Watson, in Dean-street, 
Fetter-lane, where, by good fortune, they found him (the Doctor). 
Thistlewood and Young Watson immediately resolved upon leaving 
London that night — since, all being engaged in the riot, they 
were equally in danger of arrest. 

It is rather a curious fact, that the knock which caused them 
so much alarm, and which induced them to leave the house in. 
Greystoke-place so soon, was the means of saving their lives ! 
They had not left the house more than an hour, before it was sur- 



YOUNG WATSON. 69 

rounded by a posse of constables, with the Lord Major at their 
head, and searched from top to bottom. 

About nine o'clock at night, on the second of December, Young 
Watson, accompanied by his father and Thistlewood — the long 
unknown third party — started on his intended journey, in the 
Lope of obtaining shelter and concealment among his friends in 
Lincolnshire. Their means were scanty, and the Doctor carried 
a small bmidle of such change of clothes as he could hastily put 
together. They also took the precaution to arm themselves ; and 
thus furnished, left the Doctor's lodgings, on their route to Lin- 
colnshire. 

They made the best of their way towards Highgate, passing the 
patrols, and bidding them " good night." Arrived in safety at 
the top of the hill, they took shelter at a road-side public-house, 
and partook of some refreshment. Having finished their repast, 
they continued their journey, and proceeded through the town of 
Highgate. 

At this moment Doctor Watson, who had received a slight 
injury in the tendons of his heel, during the day, and who was 
some short distance behind his son and Thistlewood, observed a 
man on horseback approaching slowly towards him. Apprehen- 
sive that the man was a highwayman, he hastened onwards, and 
soon overtook his companions, to whom he communicated his 
suspicions. They made some slight remark; and, engaged in 
earnest conversation, walked a short distance on. 

The Doctor was again left a little in the rear of his friends, 
when, suddenly hearing the trampling of a horse close upon him, 
he called out ''He is here ! " At this moment the supposed 
highwayman seized hold of him, and drawing a pistol, said, 
** Stand still, or I '11 blow your brains out." Young Watson and 
Thistlewood, hearing the outcry, hurried back to the spot, where 
the Doctor stood in the power of the horseman, who exclaimed, 
(taking hold of the bundle he carried), * • What have you got here ? ' ' 
To wluch the Doctor replied, " Some linen." The man having 
placed the bundle upon his saddle, stretched out his arm, and 
seized hold of the handle of a pistol the Doctor carried in Ms 
Ireast pocket, again repeating his threat, and telling him to stand 
still. At this moment he observed two men coming towards 
them, at the sight of whom Young Watson and Thistlewood, whd 
had advanced to the Doctor's rescue, ran onwards, and were soon 
lost sight of in the darkness. At the same time the Doctor was 



70 TOVKG WATBOK. 

wmzed upon by the eompanionfi, as he then supposed, of the high- 
wayman, who instantly rode off in the direction his two friend 
kad taken, with the yiew of overtaking them. 

One of the watchmen — for svch the men proved to he — spnmg 
kts rattle, and shouted out " Stop thief." A minute had seareely 
elapsed, when the Doctor heard the report of a pistol, fired at a 
short distance, fdlowed by a fearful cry, as of a person shot, and 
which, in the agitation of the moment, he conceived to be t^e 
voice of his son. 

In dreadful anxiety and alarm, the Doctor made strenuous 
efforts to disengage himself from the two men, saying " murder 
was being committed," and that unless they instantly unhanded 
him he would run them through the body ; and drew a swmd 
from a stick he carried with him. At sight of his sword the m^ 
grappled him the harder, and in the struggle one of the men. 
reeled and fell, pulling the Doctor and the other man — ^it being 
frosty and slippery — to the ground. Fearful of injuring himself 
or the men in faUing, the Doctor endeavoured to guard the point 
of the sword with las left hand, and in so doing wounded himself 
i^verely. 

At the moment they fell, the horseman — alarmed, as was sup- 
posed, by the report of the pistol, and not knowing from wh^ice 
the sound proceeded — galloped back, and, alighting from his 
horse, seized the Doctor violently, and began to force him towards 
a public-house — ** The Lion and Sun" — ^from which lights were 
brought out ; and here the horseman, who, for the first time, the 
Doctor discovered to be a patrol, began searching his pockets, 
and shouted out that he *'had caught a footpad," while one or 
other of the two watchmen — Rhodes and Golding — ^who were 
intoxicated, kept flourishing his sword, as though to run him 
through. 

After taking his money, lancets, &,c,, from his pockets, and 
tearing his eyeglass from his buttonhole, they proceeded to secure 
him. But as the handcuffs they produced were too large, they 
tied a handkerchief tightly round his wrists, to prevent their 
slipping off. He was then chained to the saddle of the patrol's 
horse, and walked down to Somers Town watch-house. 

On his way thither, the Doctor had the satisfaction of hearing, 
from a watchman guarding him, that his son was safe. It 
appeared that this man, hearing the cry of ** Stop thief,*' 
Attempted to seize Young Watson in his flight, who fired at him. 



YOUNG WATSON. 71 

and that in terror he had uttered the ciy heard bj the Doctor^ 
although unhurt by the discharge. Uttering a dreadful scream, 
as though he had received a mortal wound, the watchman fell 
back, and Young Watson, though almost within his grasp, again 
escaped. 

This eyent happened in a narrow passage, at the far end of 
Highgate. Young Watson — freed from the grasp of the watch- 
man^— with his companion Thistlewood ran forward, climbed over 
a paling into a garden, and, favoured by the darkness of the 
mght, lay concealed. When the tumult and bustle had in some 
degree subsided, they clambered into a neighbouring field, and 
proceeded westward towards Hampstead. It was very dark ; 
and, utterly at a loss which way to bend their steps, they wandered 
about until they found a footpath leading to a lane crossing Lord 
Mansfield's estate. Here they lay down under a hedge, for a 
short time, not knowing where they were ; and, while thus 
•ensconced, heard the voices of several persons, evidently in search 
of them, and who cautioned each other as to " their having fire- 
arms. " 

After some little time they came from their hiding-place, and 
agsun wandered about the fields, with the intent of returning to 
Xiondon, and so learn tidings of the Doctor, about whom they 
were most uneasy. At length, growing weary, they stretched 
themselves upon some hurdles, and slept soundly. 

At daybreak they were awoke by a carter smacking his whip, 
as he passed along the road with his team. Proceeding onwards, 
Thistlewood said he knew a woman of the name of Hunt (who 
had formerly been servant to his wife's mother, and whose 
litisband was a journeyman carpenter), residing in East-street, 
'Manchester-sc[uare. To these poor people Thistlewood proposed 
to go, with Young Watson, to obtain refreshments, and to consult 
upon future measures. With this determination they walked 
■&wn the lane through Caen Wood to Hampstead, and so on over 
Primrose-hill into the Edgeware-road. 

They here met a working-man, who stopped, seemed to take 
^notice of them, and smiled ; but whether at their dirty condition, 
i)r through recollecting them in connection with the previous day, 
they did not know. They passed on, and reached Hunt's residence 
in safety, where for the present we will leave them. 

H. HOLL. 



72 



THE PLACE OF THE FINE ARTS IN THE NATURAL 

SYSTEM OF SOCIETY. 



''We live in an artificial state of society," is a commou 
assertion, though the boundaries between it and the natural state 
are not defined nor illustrated. In common language, Nature and 
Ciyilisation are opposed to each other — ^the latter being regarded 
as an exotic, a forced growth of political skill, a magnificent pro- 
duct of art, in no wise governed by the same natiu-al laws as the 
original brute condition of mankind, nor formed by the same 
creative hand which placed the race originally on the earth. 
Like the locomotive or the ship, civilisation is said to be a con- 
trivance of an individual or a succession of individuals — of some 
gifted, wise, and foreseeing legislators, who established rules for 
conduct leading to improvement, and constituted it the duty of a 
governing class to enforce them on the observance of the vulgar 
multitude. Reflection suggests a doubt of the accuracy of this 
theory. The instant our attention is directed to the subject, we 
perceive that the sexes always preserve their distinguishing 
characteristics. They are physically and morally different now 
as at the beginning, and their union is at all times the basis of 
the whole society. One leading fact, then — one great natural 
law — ^lies equally at the foundation of society in its earliest and its 
most advanced stages. Is the whole vast and complicated, beau- 
tiful and various, superstructure of modern society the sponta- 
neous growth of the same great fact, or the artificial contrivance 
of a succession of lawgivers ? 

That certain aspiring men have contmually attempted to model 
society, must at once be admitted ; that they succeeded ia 
restraining and modifying its exuberant form, and have checked 
its growth, must also be granted ; but that they are therefore the 
authors of civiUsation is no more true, than that the man who fells, 
and lops, and squares the lofty oak makes the timber of the 
forest. That they have interposed between Nature and indi- 
viduals a great barrier of legislation, expressly to ward off the 
natural consequences of action, and generate the belief that they 
are the guardians and protectors of mankind, is abundantly 



THE PLACE OF THE FINE ARTS IN SOCIETY. 73 

obvious ; but through and behind this barrier the forbidden 
communication always practically takes place, and it guards 
neither individuals nor society from the consequences of the 
natural laws which established diversity of sex. Nature every 
day loudly and plainly answers the querist that the barrier, 
for the end proposed, is the most flimsy, worthless, costly con- 
trivance that ever men loaded themselves with. Thus, amongst 
the many moral and political truths willingly assented to by the 
people, and forced on the still incredulous statesman by the rapid 
jNTOgress of population within the last half century, there is none 
clearer or of greater importance than that he is not the author 
of social progress nor of civilisation. This assertion requires 
illustration. 

One of the most effectual instruments of social progress and 
modern civilisation is the Press ; which legislation, far from having 
created or fostered, has, from the time at least of Wolsey, 
regarded as a terrible enemy, and laboured incessantly to chain 
to its own chariot-wheels. It has failed. Star Chambers and 
libel laws, censorships and pensions, have mutilated and poisoned, 
but could not kill. It has survived the malignity of Parliaments 
and the arrogance of kings, and has triumphed over both. It 
has become the ruling influence of society, and has everywhere 
been useful, truthful, and enlightened, in proportion as it has 
escaped the fetters of the law and the trammels of patronage. 
Another powerful aid to civilisation is the steam-engine, parti- 
cularly when applied to locomotion. Never, perhaps, in the 
world were eighteen millions of human beings more uninterrupt* 
edly tranquil, and confldent in the results of their own exertions, 
than the inhabitants of Great Britain during the last ten years. 
Their contentment is mainly owing to the rapidity and freedom 
of communication between one part of the island and another. 
The inhabitants of every part have been almost instantly informed 
of what the inhabitants of every other part were doing, and that 
iheir distant fellow-subjects, like themselves, were unassailed and 
secure. They have also been informed of everything done by 
the government, and at no time have they dreaded from that 
powerful organisation any sudden or violent invasion of their 
rights. Legislation, by subjecting the promoters of private enter- 
pisc to monstrous expenses, by absurd standmg orders, ridiculous 
precautions, and erroneous judgments, has done much to impede 
locomotion, and nothing to promote it. Gas, too, spreading by 



74 THE PLACE OF THE FINE AATS IN SOCIETT. 

sight a light half like that of daj through ererj nook atA 
ierannj, every closed-up court and crooked alley, in our old and 
Hioonyeniently built towns and cities, has, as it were, kept every man 
aJways under the eye of the public, and has contributed much to 
put an end to those yiolent outrages for which, only a few yewB 
ago, our towns were somewhat remarkable. We might run 
through a score or more of the most remarkable mechanical 
inventions of modern times, and show their influence in repressing 
crimes, promoting social order, and bringing about civilisation ; 
though, as in the case of the Press, they have often been the 
means of effecting it in direct opposition to the lawgiver. These 
examples are, however, sufficient to confirm the assertion, that 
civilisation, whatever be its origin, and whatever hand may guide 
it, is not the child of political or legislative wisdom. 

One other leading fact we must briefly advert to. Division of 
labour, or the exclusive devotion of individuals to particular 
employments, is undoubtedly a great means of carrying forward 
the human race.' In one or two instances, the legislator, seizing 
hold of the fact after division of labour has come into existence, 
has endeavoured, as in India, to confine it under a few denomi* 
nations, and has divided the people into castes, appropriating to 
them different occupations. His success has produced stagna- 
tion. Society ceased to be progressive, and became the victim 
-of nations amongst whom the establishment of castes had not 
fiuppressed emulation and subdued energy. Division of laboiu' £» 
«s completely a natural phenomenon as the diversity of sex. No 
legislator establishes or promotes it. Man, in all countries and 
ages, has taken one species of occupation, and Woman another. 
♦The aged too, and the young, in all stages of society, have other 
occupations than the robust, and those who are mature in yeare 
and strength. Climate, situation, and peculiarity of disposition — 
other sources of division of labour — lead one man to be a wine 
grower, another an iron-founder, a fattener of cattle, a miner, a 
painter, a poet, or an inventor ; and thus, as population increases 
in any given space, these natural circumstances, for ever existing", 
continually enforce and maintain a progressive eirtension of 
division of labour, to the benefit and civilisation of all. 

This principle has been generally considered in its single rela- 
tion of influencing the production of wealth, and its moral efheta, 
though equally beneficial, have been disregarded. Commeree, 
irhich binds nations together in amity, is the result of terreBtrial 



THE ¥LA.€E OF THE PI5B AKTS IN SOCIETY. 75 

^sw^m 9i kbosr, diversity of climate and situation. Rival 
go^erBSieiits and stateemen only interrupt the peace and friend- 
riup til at terrestrial division of labour is continually promoting. 
The mutual dependence of man on man in the same country, 
caused by ito one completing, of himself and unaided, any piece 
«f w^k, begets civility and friendship. It establishes a relation 
of BRLtual service and mutual kindness between the butcher and 
tlie graKier, the farmer and the miller, the spinner and the 
wearer, a^d between all the industrial classes. They cannot live 
without one another. The right hand might as well quarrel with 
the left, as the shipwright with the sailor, or the tanner with the 
dM>emaker. Division of labour substitutes friendly and just 
relations, for jealousy, envy, and fear, and contributes to check 
enme and promote virtue. 

Peculation, as it increases, carries with it a continual extension 
of ihe principle of division of labour. It calls new classes of 
indtistrious men into existence. New arts spring up, new wealth 
IB created, and new relations are established between individuals 
sad nations. Old laws are continually found to be incompatible 
with the progress of society, and noxious to human welfare. 
Does society aec<Hnmodate itself to the old institutions ? No : it 
bursts them asunder, and they fall away like withes from the arm 
oi the strong man. The lawgiver always essays to bind them on 
iuaew, and may Succeed, with some relaxation or change of form ; 
b«i it is only to restore the incompatibility between him and Nature, 
and at no distant day compel society to destroy his new chains. 

The progress of society, against the will of the lawmaker over- 
tvning his institutions, has, in modem times, been very marked. 
it is one of the moral phenomena of the age. The increase of 
diseeniers and catholics made the laws to preserve the dominion 
^ tile state-church unbearable, and test acts and penal disabilities 
were rent asunder and trampled under foot. A wonderful increase 
-of pepttlattoB, forming several new and great towns, made the old 
fljsieai of r^resentation inadequate. Did society reduce itself to 
the tise prescribed by the lawgiver ? Quite the contrary : he was 
eom^Hed to adapt his law to the new circumstances. He yielded, 
ind^d, as little as possible, and coupled his compliance with regis- 
4a*atioti, rate-paying clauses, and other foolish restrictions, to supply 
tfiidence hereafter of his present imbecility when th^ follow the 
hike of the boroughs in schedule A. S4ill later, the increase of 
the manufacturing classes made the laws which confined them for 



76 THE PLACE OF THE FINE ARTS IK SOCIETY. 

their supply of food to the land owned by the lawmakers, a com- 
plete nuisance ; and though the lawgivers thought their pecuniary 
interest and their power at stake, they were compelled to abolish 
the Com Laws. 

We need not advert, for further illustrations of this important 
principle, to the abolition of slavery, and the great limitation of 
capital and other punishments, which the progress of knowledge 
and the instrumentality of the Press have forced on an unwiUing 
legislature. A lawgiver may now and then be found who gives 
an impulse to social progress, but the true characteristic of legis- 
lators, in relation to the onward moving masses, is holding back ; 
and tbis characteristic is not altered by such rare exceptions to the 
rule as that of Joseph the Second. In the great majority of 
cases, the natural progress of society has necessarily swept away 
old laws to bring about improvement. That this depends on 
natural circumstances is certain, from the progress being nearly 
simultaneous and consentaneous throughout civiUsed society. 
Steadily have the nations of Europe marched almost abreast, one 
now and then going faster and farther than the other ; but in most 
of the great natural features of civilisation, such as the increase of 
knowledge and the division of labour, they more nearly resemble 
each other than they differ in their political features. The law- 
giver has always been at work trying to build up a superstruc^ 
ture of his ovm on the natural foundation of society, and to make us 
believe that he is the great architect of the whole ; but the same 
power which laid them carries on the building, and is continually 
toppling down the little buttresses, and bursting asunder the 
little bonds by which he tries to cramp and deform the lordly 
temple. Society is, at places and times, limited and distorted by 
conventionalities derived from his regulations not yet out-grown, 
and by laws still in existence. They extend, however, only to 
small portions of the structure ; they are not essential, they are 
only adjuncts. All its main beams, as well as its foundations — 
division of labour, as well as diversity of sex — commerce, with all it& 
consequences of money, agency, credit, <fec., — as well as climate, 
inequalities of wealth (within certain limits,) as well as variety of 
talents and disposition ; the progress of knowledge, as well as the 
multipHcation of the species — are all natural, not artificial. If 
they are not legal, or recognised and sanctioned by the lawgiver, 
they ought to be, and in the end must be, in their fullest freedoia 
and perfect growth. 



THE PLACE OF THE FINE ARTS IN SOCIETY. 77 

There is only one point on which any doubt can be entertained. 
It is nsuallj supposed, and said, that political power protects pro- 
perty, and that without property, and without protection for pro- 
perty, there would be no civilisation. Admitting the two latter 
circmnstamces, the fact that the labourers of Europe, who produce 
all its wealth, have little or nothing, while a number of other 
classes, by means of taxation and other political contrivances, are 
secured in opulence, it is clear that political power only protects 
one species of property ; and it may be doubted whether its most 
injurious action be not its habitual violation of the natural rights 
of property in the labourer. It tries to protect, we admit, the 
right of property which it creates, as when it secures to Lord 
BUenborough, or the Rev. Mr. Thurlow, the income which it 
bestows on them in the shape of fees or tithes ; but such a right 
of property is evidently founded on some fixed exactions, and is 
that violation of the property of the industrious classes which 
dooms them to indigence. 

Our conclusions — to sum them up — are, that there are two 
systems of society, one superinduced on the other — the natural and 
the political ; and that the former is continually out-growing and 
casting aside the latter. Civilisation is the result of the former, 
and is opposed to the latter — not to nature. Political society, not 
civilisation, is artificial. The natural system is infinitely powerful 
compared to the parasitical system wound around it. These points 
established by rather a long introduction, we come to the theme 
for the sake of which it was written. 

Where is the place of the Fine Arts in the natural system of 
society ? Exotics in our country, patronised by the throne, or by 
those who sit around it ; Sculpture especially, next Fainting and 
Music, having at present their home chiefly in courts, or amongst the 
politically great ; having little or no connexion with the industrious 
masses, and dove-tailing not in with them who compose, almost 
exclusively, the natural system of society — the Fine Arts, as now 
-cultivated, form, and have long formed, a part of the political 
system. Their professors, as the rule, are dependent on the state, 
or those who derive power jfrom its regulations. They seek pen- 
sions and cry aloud for patronage. They are not content, like * 
merchants, and farmers, and manufacturers, with the support of 
the public. Their situation is one of dependence, and they are 
too often the flatterers of the politically great. Whatever they 
might have been in Greece, in modem Europe they are, in the 



78 THE PLACB OF TEE FTNB ARTS Df SOeiETY. 

mam, anii-HleBK^cratic. Some ireU-known ezeepti0iis cmlj esta- 
blish tlie rule. Our practical purpose is to invite attentkm to tke 
arts of Sculpture, Music, and Painting'; under this relation to point 
ou^ their place in the natural system of society, and excite the profes- 
sors of these arts, for their own honour and advantage, toeeeupj k. 

Literature has shown them the way, and has takea with her, 
hand in hand, the democratic and diffusive art of engraving. 
Books, ^DQibellished and illustrated with the greatest care, joanuda 
aol newspapers of all descriptions, are now published at a eost 
which brings them within the reach of the humblest dasaes* 
Authors, like fanners and cotton-print makers, begin to rdij an 
the masses as their best customers. This has e&cted a great 
revolution in literature itself. As long as the opulent gdIj were 
its patrons, it was too often stuied with foolish errors and fake 
refinement. The aspirations of the poor, and the hopes of ihe 
humble, as well as their sufferings, were only lampooned. Their 
honest efforts to improve their condition, and take a higher placse 
in society, were continually snubbed by the tuft-hunters of litera- 
ture. They were continually admonished to remain in their coi^ 
dition, and not imitate their betters in acquirements, dresE^ 
manners, imd language. Literature has now become more manlj 
and independent. Looking to a w<^ld-wide market, it must please 
all customers, and can only do that by being natural. By beeomr 
ing cheap, it became essentially comprehensive and vigoronay 
healthy, pure, and truthful. To every class it imparts instructftoa 
and amusement. There are hardly any so low but they are chaered 
in their solitude and their social hours by some kind of reading, 
or by hearing at second-hand the tales, the jokes, the aneodoteSy 
the informati<Mi, that are gathered from the journals. In the great 
natural system of society, and in that division of laboiu* whidi 
springs from diversity of sex and diversity of climate, and which 
pervades the world, literature has taken its a|^ropriate place. No 
longer the handmaid of any class, it ministers to the pleasures of 
those who supply food and clothing, quite as much as to those who 
sit on the throne and direct public affairs. It has outgrown alike 
the fetters and the blandishments of the politically great, and 
stands recognised, before the face of Heaven^ the helpmate ai^ 
friend, a part and parcel of the toiling masses. 

Of Sctdpture nothing like this can be said even in Italy. It 
provides plaster casts and models of some of the favourites of the 
people. The busts of Milto^, Byron, Scott> Nekon, &^,, are now 



J 



THE PLACE OF THE TIKE ARTS 19 SOOIETT, 79 

genaeniOj aecessible, and are dbeap and lastiBg mementos of tke 
noble-minded men ihe people admire. But in general, clotbed ia 
antique drapery, speaking in allegories that only the learned eaa 
read. Sculpture (mly fills the niches of Christian churches, and 
emblazons the t<»nb-6toBes of Christians with figures that are as 
foreign to the thoughts and life of the Englishman as to those of 
ibe Sandwich Islander. To neither our climate nor our manners is 
Seulpture yet reconciled. She was at home in Grreece, where the 
mythidogy she still ^nbodies was the creed oi the people ; where 
the human figure, unimpeded by dress, was continually exhibited 
in all its attitudes and vigour ; where eyery man was a practical 
eoniioisseur of muscular derelo^Mnent, as he is here of mechanical 
akill; and where a bright pure atmosphere preserved the finest 
touches of the chisel in all their original sharpness. In old Rome 
too, and in ,modem Italy also, at the reyival of the art, where the 
ivftbolo^ of the Greeks and the earliest impressions of Christ- 
ianity were to some ext^^t traditionally preserved. Sculpture was 
congenial to the then form of society, and did adapt itself to the 
habits and feelings of the people. Costly in her productions, and 
speaking only to the initiated few, except as she preserves the 
forms of national heroes, including the heroes of industry, Sculpture, 
9B now cultivated, seems to have no place in the natural system of 
Bodeiy. That system is now developing with amazing rapidity ; 
and to find a place in it, to be honoured by the multitude, she must, 
like the earthenware manufacturer, perform her task by ministering 
to their wants. She must not confine hers^f to the halls of the 
great — she must ennoble the workshop. She must leave the 
monsters of fable, the allegories of an irregular fancy, and an 
%Borant faith, and the garb of a foreign people, to fix in imperish- 
able marble the improvements, the hopes, and the faith of our own 
people. She must help, to raise up and improve the democracy. 
She most return to labour some reward for the subsistence, the 
clothing, and the shelter which labour supplies, or she will pass, 
as society goes onward, into the oblivion which has* fallen on the 
Bseless Greek fire, and the lost imperial Tyrian dye. 

Painting, tiiough diverted from her place by those who preferred 
the historical to the domestic — the school of West to that of 
Hogarth — is getting more amongst the people than Sculpture. It 
is less, however, by her mere works on the canvas, than by her 
designs for the burin, that she fills the place destined for her in 
4^ natural system of society. By both, however, she now appeals 



80 THE PLACE OF THE FIKE ARTS IK BOCIETT. 

to other classes than kings and senators, generals and admirals ; 
and to other feelings than those of admiration for factitious heroes, 
and of superstitious rererence for mjBtical or supernatural eyents. 
Bj her vivid representations of rags and roofless cahins — of the 
daring violators of custom-house regulations — of the victims of 
game-laws — of criminals, the offspring of legal injustice — hj her 
bold satires of the foolish eccentricities of men armed with power, 
or endowed with wealth, she has become a great teacher on the 
side of Nature, and the auxiliary of honest labour. Her charms 
are prized accordingly. Her fearless exposures have been a great 
help to liberty. Now that she seeks rewards from administering 
to the enjoyments of the multitude, she too has become generous 
and truthful, and is scoffed at when she yet lends her pallet to 
gild and hide the chains of superstition, or consecrate the deeds of 
the despot and the man-slayer. 

Music, though universally diffused, is less cultivated for the 
masses than the few. Most of her original compositions are for 
the great, and only descend to the vulgar when the rich are tired 
of them. Those who have witnessed the effects of Music amongst 
different classes, will hardly think that her natural home is the 
Opera-House. The poorly-fed and hard-worked German student 
is an enthusiast for music. The infant in arms, and the girl that 
bears it, dance with delight at the merry sounds of the street 
musicians. The tired soldier on his march is cheered by a brisk 
strathspey. The sailor, heaving and treading round with the 
capstan, works with double spirit when the band plays. After a 
day's toil, it refreshes and exhilarates the peasant and the artisan. 
But music at the Opera, for those who are cloyed with pleasure — 
who come sweltering in food and wine from the clubs — ^is only 
adding to a surfeit : it is heaping pleasure on pleasure, till the 
overloaded sensorium loses all sensibility. The concord of sweet 
sounds has to struggle for inlet amidst a timiult of feverish sensa- 
tions, and is often lost in noise. Music, like literature, is in its 
proper place ^en it is ministering to the enjoyment of the toiling 
masses. It seems felt and appreciated when it escapes from the 
Opera-House to the street, and is reaUy prized and honoured 
when it becomes at once popular and vulgar. 
' In the natural system of society, art must administer to art. 
Noisome smells of necessary preparations must be overcome by the 
perfumer. His skill receives only a small part of its due applica- 
tion when it is limited to the toilette. It must sweeten the work-' 






THE PLACE OF THE FINE ARTS. 81 

shop and rob tlie manufactorj of the effluvia which makes it 
offensive and injurious. So, the proper office of Music is to cheer 
the labourer. Eveiy man-of-war, every regiment, has a band. 
Why should not every factory have its orchestra ? Why are the 
ears of workmen to be for ever tortured, when the noises might be 
made musical or overborne by music ? The natural office of the 
Fine Arts is not merely to add to the pleasures of the opulent, but 
to diffuse enjoyment amidst the workers. Their professors limit 
their utility and degrade them from their higher station when they 
adapt themselves and their works only to the politically great. 
Classes pass away ; industrious man lives for ever. Great wealth, 
high rank, political power, are but the ephemeral creations of a 
political system that is fast wearing out ; and if the Fine Ai*ts 
would win a durable hold on the affections of mankind, they must 
be adapted, not to decaying classes, but to the ever-living multitude. 
If events in our own society ; if the progress of the people and 
the success of literature, from being adapted to the wants of the 
multitude, make no impression on the professors of Scripture, 
painting, and music, let them cast their eyes across the Atlantic. 
There, within a few days' sail or steaming, is a population speaking 
our language, which promises, while many artists now budding into 
r^utation will still be alive, to amount to more than 100,000,000. 
Amongst that mighty people there are few or none of those classes 
for whom the Fine Arts have been exclusively cultivated here. So 
cultivated, they can have no success there ; and instead of shar- 
ing in the wealth and power of that great nation, they will be cast 
aside as the mere accessories and ornaments to a worn-out political 
fiystem. We are aware of the many temptations which, in the 
present distribution of property, induce professors and artists of 
all kinds to worship wealth ; but the main gist of our argument is, 
that the few wealthy have it not in their power, in the long run, 
to bestow equal rewards to the industrious, though less wealthy 
many. On the whole, literary men and artists, who work for the 
great public, are better rewarded now than ever they were, when 
they ate the bitter bread of royal and noble patronage. Unfortu- 
nately the Fine Arts have been tempted and perverted by the politi- 
cally great. Springiag from nature — ^for Music, Sculpture, and 
Painting are not decreed and regulated by law — they really belong 
to the natural system of society, and their sole end and destination, 
their true place in that great system, is to give pleasure to those 
who minister to the physical wants of the community. 

NO. XXil. — VOL. VI. G 



82 



THE OONVERTBD MAN. 

BY FBANCES BROWN. 



It was in the days of our gentility — ^we entertain a prejudice 
agauiBt specifying die number of years that have elapsed smee 
that period — ^that we had the honour of beii% the opposite neighbour 
and frequent visitor of Scrutley House. Such was the designation 
bestowed by its owner on a lai^e mansion, new and square, with 
nice curtained windows, and yery high paling in front, lately 
erected in Lumberton Place, one of the most aristocratic suburbs 
of our native city, a, large provincial town, which, besides beii^ 
c(»neoted, at least in name, with sporting associations, has beea 
long famous for seriousness and sectanes. 

Mr. and Mrs. Scrutley were spoken of by their acquaintauces as 
a most exemplary pcur. Thirty years of his '' sojourn in this 
valley of tears," as the good man delighted to call it, had beea 
passed in close attention to a yearly increasing, warehouse* She 
had devoted twenty to the management of his domestic afiairs ; 
both had been seriously brought up, though in. circumstances v^y 
differ^t. from these imder which they entered that mansion ; but, 
being pnident for this world and the next, they had prospered by 
eschewing the vaaities,. if not the pride of life, and risen to wealth 
and impoi^ance by the united practice of economy and religion. 

At the period of our acquaintance with the family, Mr. Scrutley 
had not retired from Imsiness, but the event was talked of ; he 
had been an alderman, and expected to be lord maymr ; was a 
member of ** The Society for the Suppression of Vice," a general 
patron of Sabbath Schools, and his name, together with that of 
Mrs. S., appeared at the head of all . missionary lists whatever. 
Moreover, they had just taken possession, of the afbresaid house, 
discovered their arms, and mounted a carriage, in which Mrs. 
Scrutley delighted to pay visits to the poor and the pious of the 
neighbourhood, accompanied by her eldest, dao^terf^ama, a pretty 
but. rather diibdued-lookinggirl of sixteen ; and occasionally, when, 
as the lady remarked, it was proper, by tibree very little ani remark- 
ably quiet girls, kept at all seasons in the nursery, which/ included 



THE OONTiaCTEI) HAK. 83 

the whole household, with the exception of Master Crockston : his 
name had been bestowed in their hmnbler days, when the family 
title was Scrutt ; but he was now the heir of its improyed form, 
arms and all, whose abiding-place was Eton, preparatory for 
Oxford, to be made a finished gentleman. 

Things had reached this stage of perfection, when, dropping in 
one morning, we found Emma, as usual, practising " Hope on, 
hope ever," on the piano, while Herbert Symmington stood behind 
her chair, turning the leayes of the music-book with most praise- 
worthy attention. 

•We knew Herbert to be related to the family, but not near 
enough to prevent sundry ingenious interpretations of his cousin- 
like assiduity to Miss Scrutley. His connections were somewhat 
better than those of the Scrutleys had been ; he was the son of a 
respectable physician, whose days had been cut short just when 
his family were half provided for, and he departed this life, leaving 
a wife and two grown-up daughters with means just sufficient to 
maintain them in a pinched respectability, which they supported in 
a rery small house, named by the mother — we could never learn 
wherefore — " Geranium Cottage ; " but it certainly sounded well, 
with tremendous abilities for collecting all the gossip of the neigh- 
bourhood, and an unconquerable love for fashionable finery, which 
they were obliged to wear many a day after its glory was departed. 

Herbert had obtained the profession of a barrister ; but his 
legal career was yet brief, and briefs with him had been few ; the 
man was in life's verdant days, a little green in heart, perhaps, as 
well as in experience ; tall, and bright-eyed, and dashing, but too 
easily embarrassed for the bar, and notable for nothing, yet able 
and willing to laugh when occasion offered, with no particular 
objection to a theatre or a party, and not at all averse to flirtation, 
especially as regarded Emma. 

We had a suspicion that our absence could have been pardoned 
at the moment ; but in bustled Mr. and Mrs. Scrutley, exclaiming 
in a breath, *• Emma, Emma, you will certainly be too late for the 
missionary meeting ;" and as they responded to our salutations, 
both added, in a condescending tone, ** Good morning, Mr. 
Symmington.'* 

The young barrister looked about to do deadly violence to the 
sHk waterproof, which, according to the more safe than graceful 
prescription of fashion for morning calls, was held fast, under his 
arm. 

o2 



84 THE CONVERTED HAK. 

Poor Emma rose in evident perturbation ; but Mrs. Scrutley 
pointed to a cbair at ber side, and sbe was seated instantly, wbile 
tbe migbtj mercbant; tbrowing bimself on a sofa, demanded,, 
witb an air wbicb still savoured of tbe warebouse : " Wbat news,. 
Symmington ? How does business do witb you ? " 

"Are you a subscriber to the London Missionary Society?" 
inquired Mrs. Scrutley. 

" Pretty well, tbank you, sir." 

" No, madam.*' 

" Good morning, ladies," said Herbert, as be burried out of tbe 
room witb a face furiously red, and many a vain endeavour to 
conceal tbe cbagrin tbat rose on tbe young man's mind like & 
mountain river. 

" A vain, conceited cozcomb," said Mr. Scrutley, as soon as 
tbe door was sbut. 

" Full of worldly-mindedness,*' responded bis belpmate. But 
poor Emma bad not been detained for notbing ; and we suspect 
our presence was considered to enbance tbe value of tbe rebuke,, 
for tbe pair forthwith conmienced a joint exhortation, the end and 
aim of which was, that Enmia should not encourage the attentions 
of any character so vain and frivolous as Herbert Synmiington, he 
being altogether unsuitable and unworthy of a religious and well 
brougbt-up young lady. 

"I'm sure I don*t encourage him," said Emma, growing very 
red and restless on her cbair ; " but they do say he's a very nice 
young man, and very clever in his profession." 

"He is an unconverted creature, child, " interrupted Mrs. 
Scrutley ; " and the family are so given to levity after all their 
affliction, one can scarcely endure them, — not to speak of their 
pride : but it will have a faU." 

Poor Emma listened in total silence, and at last left the room 
with her handkerchief to her eyes ; and we, after hearing an im- 
mensity about parental solicitude, and the pair's anxiety that their 
children should regard " not the interests of this life, but that 
which is to come, ' returned to our own solitary abode, devoutly 
thanking Providence, who had not visited us with such respon- 
sibilities. 

In our subsequent visits to Scrutley House we saw no more of 
Herbert Symmington ; even his mother and sisters had given up 
their quiet calls, and the family were never invited to Mrs. 
Scrutley's pious and very select parties. 



THE CONVERTED MAN. 85 

Emma continued to attend the missionaiy meetings and work 
for the Lazars, but the girl's patient look gfew sad and abstracted 
at times, as though her thoughts were not all of Berlin and canvas ; 
and at the close of the next term we heard there was grief in 
'Geranium Cottage, for Herbert had chosen to exchange his pros< 
poets at the British bar for a very small and civil situation under 
the East India Government, and sailed for the banks of the 
Ganges with the loudly-expressed resolution to return a nabob, or 
return no more. 

Season after season brought changes to Lumberton Place : the 
Brickleys, the Mugleys, and the Crackleys, becoming aristocratic 
in their turn, came up from the streets of shops and warehouses, 
and built their mansions beside Scrutley House; with palings 
quite as high, windows as abundant in their drapery, and parties 
equally select, which multiplied every winter. Time did its work 
in Scrutley House also ; the chiefs of the establishment increased 
in wealth and piety ; Master Crockston removed from Eton to 
Oxford, and his wants and demands increased marvellously in 
consequence. 

Emma expanded into womanhood, and was thought less pretty 
hy her young lady friends, but certainly not less disciplined or 
industrious, for many were the rugs and stool-covers of her frame ; 
her three juniors grew too tall for the nursery, and were therefore 
brought into the drawing-room to knit perpetual purses, being all 
members of the "Useful Arts Encouragement Society," upider the 
special superintendence of their mama, and her nearest evangelical 
friend, the Honourable and Reverend Frederic Alphonso Sniveller, 
incumbent of Wuish Eleecington, who had lately succeeded to the 
family estates by the death of his eldest brother, the Honourable 
Piperly, which took place suddenly after a total-abstinence soiree. 

In the meantime, if letters came from Herbert to Geranium 
dottage, their contents seldom transpired. Some said they brought 
no good report, and gradually grew short and few ; but at length 
rumours of great fortune began to prevail. At first they were 
vague and indistinct^ but by-and-bye they took a definite form, 
and it was known that Herbert Symmington had grown suddenly 
rich by the legacy of an extraordinary friend in India, and was on 
liis homeward voyage to rejoice the hearts of his friends. 

Mrs. Scrutley and her carriage, on their next round of visits, 
-were observed to call at Geranium Cottage, and Mrs. Symmington, 
with her two daughters, were marshalled to the drawing room 



86 THE CONYSBTED HAK. 

next day, all in tHe usual faded £nery, and an immense fluster 
about Herbert. » 

It was just four years from the date of the first-mentioned 
visit ; many had interrened, but a call was for some time owing, 
and we hastened to discharge the obligation, when sounds of 
cordial greetings, and most friendly inquiries, reached us from 
the drawing-room, and on entering we were presented to Herbert 
Symmington. There he sat in the power of his Eastern expe- 
rience, and the glory of that recent legacy, surrounded by Ha 
mother and sisters ; better dressed than was their wont, and far 
too proud to speak ; Mr. and Mrs. Scrutley, whose wrapt atten< 
tion was only interrupted to express their dehght at seeing him 
restored to the bosom of his family ; the Honourable and Reverend 
Sniveller, who felt his light eclipsed, but seemed by no means 
disposed to put it under a bushel ; and the four young Scrutlejs,. 
listening in mute admiration, with large drops, that were not iAuxe 
of sorrow, rising in poor Emma's eyes. His dress spoke of fortune 
and advancing taste, his manner was improved, he had ev^i grown 
gentlemanly ; but the face — oh I the fair young face — ^was changed ; 
the Indian sun had darkened, years had quieted it. It had 
gathered composure, confidence, and we thought craft, as he 
enlarged on the missionary operations in India, and his own 
endeavours to estabUsh prayer-meetings in Calcutta. How 
had the themes of the young barrister altered ! but Emma wa& 
not forgotten — why shoidd she ? Did not the gentleman find her 
family stiU more prosperous, and her fortune probably larger,, 
than it had be^i on the day we heard the girl admonished to 
give no encouragement to such a frivolous character. Now Mr. 
Scrutley could see no vanity in a gentleman so well dressed, and 
Mrs. found his '' worldly-mindedness" merged in those mighty 
thousands ; but to that trusting memory he was still the same. 

Signs of wealth began to make themselves manifest from that 
time about Geranium Cottage ; all Lumberton Place visited there ; 
and those who thought themselves properly treated gave parties- 
in honour of Herbert* s arrival. Before these were over, he had 
purchased Sir Hunter Tatterall's estate from the creditors ; and 
at the same time the city newspapers announced an intended 
marriage in ** High Life ;" and, after hearing a world of gossip 
on the subject, from neighbours, milliners and attorneys, we wero^ 
invited to join Emma's bridal party, and see her become Mrs.. 
Herbert Symmington. 



THE OONTEBXBD MAN. 87 

We have forgotten the number of carriages that accompanied 
uff to St. George's, where, as Mrfl. Scrutlej obserred, the ceremony 
kad been performed for the Duke and Duchess of Swindleshire, 
only a week before ; but we remember that all the lady's Sabbath 
Bcholars were ranged in a pew, and kept yery quiet by the frowns 
of the parish beadle. The afiair went on after the fashion of 
-weddings by special license ; the ring was put on, the benedic- 
tion was pronounced. Mr. Scrutley ** trusted they would c6n- 
tinue to walk in the good way," and his lady requested, ** grace 
to be thankful.*' 

Emma looked too glad to escape into the carriage from the 
gazing crowd assembled, according to custom, at the church door. 
She was seated, and Herbert was stepping in, when out of the 
crowd stepped a large gaunt -faced specimen of humanity, 
clothed in the undress of a Highland officer, who, grasping a 
huge horsewhip in one hand, and coUaring the bridegroom with 
the other, dragged him down and began to belabour him most 
unmercifully, beating time to every blow with one of his feet on 
the gentleman's person, while he vociferated, with a strong 
northern accent — 

** Ye theivin loon, aul larn ye for wilein awa the Calcutta 
lasne's liken frae me, and makin the auld mon trow ye wud 
merry her, till he left a' till yer protection." 

" Let me go ! let me go ! '* cried Mr. Symmington, endeavouriiig 
to kick back ; in which laudable attempt, however, he was foiled. 
** I did not, I have not taken the lady." 

" Na, but ye got the cash," shouted his assailant, with another 
whaok, '* and that's the cream o* the kirn." 

'* Diamond cut diamond," thought we : it's an honour to bdong 
to such a ^cies. Here the gentlemen were separated by the 
guardians of the peace, Herbert scrambled into the carriage, and 
the Scot was bundled towards the police office ; but his national 
discretion returned to his rescue in time, and after a brief parley 
we saw him sneak quietly away. As for the bridegroom, after 
being kicked and horsewhipped, he was driven home to "an 
elegant dejeuner d lafourchette/' Of course the Highland Officer 
was pronounced to be insane. We heard he was Captain M*Turk 
of the 42nd ; but Mrs. Scrutley lamented daily over his affliction, J 

and the happy pair set off for the Continent. They have long 
aioce returned, and now reside at Symmington Park. Emma looks 
asAubdoed and patient as ever ; but to our eyes, she never smiles 



88 NEW BOOKS. 

as she used to do before her wedding day. Mr. Symmingtoi 
continues to support the Evangelical interest, is particularlj 
anxious to prevent Sabbath desecration, and co-operates with the 
Scrutleys in all their great undertakings. 

Mrs. Scrutley goes often in her carriage to visit her daughter, 
seldom forgetting to call at Geranium Cottage, and she has been 
heard, while gazing on the tall trees, smooth lawn, and handsome 
Elizabethan mansion, which^ glorifies Symmington Park, to bless 
Providence that her son-in-law was a converted man. 

Stfxinorlar, 18 — . 



Neto ISioit0. 



Men, Women^ and Books ; A Selection of Sketches, Essays, and Critical 
Memoirs, from his Uncollected Writings. By Leioh Huwt. 2 Vols., 
post 8yo. Smith, Elder, & Co. 

A PUBLIC is said to be ungratefal in its nature ; and this is probably 
true ; for there are many reasons that it should be. We make thie 
public a unity, and we are philosophically justified in so doing ; for in 
its concrete nature it embodies an individuality. And this indivi- 
duality combines many particulars — ^remnants of a past generation — 
embryos of a future ; besides its own wilful mauhooa, bred and 
nourished on many associations and prejudices. Then, some of its 
members are more energetic than others, and its spirits and its opinions 
are modified by them. Thus, the public of any given time is a strange 
heterogeneous being, ignorant of the past, as regards sentiment, and 
very full of present concerns. That it should be ungrateful is not sur- 
prising — although that is scarcely the right term to use : it is rather 
unmindful than ungrateful. It is indeed most vehemently thankful to 
those that please it, and by whom it imagines itself immediately bene- 
fited. But then, in its unreflectingness, it confounds flattery with 
benefits, and pleasing sensations with genuine services. Its want of 
memory, also, bred by the constant influx of new matter into its body 
compound, must also plead as some excuse for its want of gratitude 
forpast favours. 

To no one has this said public at large been more indebted than to 
the author of the present volumes. In his youth he culled and pre- 
sented it with all kinds of flowers, and ever has been presenting to it 
fine and vivifying decoctions from his brsdn, of rare medidniu and 
refiniujg power. Potent ^pnst the most obstinate prejudices^ and 
removing indurations of feeling and intellect which had been supposed 
>to have become chronic in large sections of society. Mr. Leigh Hunt 



KEW BOOKS. 89 

has done more to reihoye the prejudices begotten of rank^ and what is 
termed high birth, than any one we know ; and, indeed, more directly 
and apparently than all the ferocious and sanguinary practice of the first 
French Revolution itself could accomplish. The one great ground on 
^xrhich the aristocracy rested, as entitled to exorbitant privileges in the 
arrangement of society, was, refinement of intellect and superiority of 
taste. Now, Mr. Leigh Hunt has devoted his life to creating, or rather 
developing, those qu^ities in the lower ranks, which, in the insolence 
and ignorance of aristocratic assurance, it was asserted they were 
organically deficient in as a body. How many can remember the time 
when, for any one engaged in trade to pretend to take any delight in 
the Fine Arts was an absurdity sufiicient to sustain a five^act comedy : 
to admire Italian music a presumption : to play upon, much less to 
possess a piano-forte, an impertinence : to know the boundaries of 
Europe, a wonder : and to travel through it, a breaking down of privilege 
that ought to be prevented by direct legislation: — for the shop men 
and women to dream of such things a species of blasphemy implying an 
atheistic principle that was alarming and revolting. All this, and much 
more absurdity, was rife when Mr. Hunt began to advocate the rights of 
humanity to all such developments. And nobly and steadily has he 
pursued his homilies on beauty, until the kindling enthusiasm spread 
to other gifted minds, and the soul of beauty in things common became 
manifested to hundreds of thousands more vividly and truly than even 
to the few. Had he been placed in a society, savage and uncultivated^ 
he wanted but craft, to have become a ruling priest, and the founder of 
a religion. But his lot has been better, and his effect more abundant 
and forcible. 

It may be said that eveiy poet performs the same office, and to a 
certain extent this is true. But to the poet's office, Mr. Hunt has 
anpecadded the philanthropist's and the legislator's ; and we have never 
seen a line of his multitudinous outpourings but that strenuously advo- 
4ia,ied this extension of a feeling for the purely beautiful. The public, 
as a concrete creature, is, as we have said, not ungrateful, and though 
■sadly misjudging and unmindfal, can be brought i6 a perception of its 
duties. This, we trust, it will be in the present instance, and hope 
4Bome manifestation of a full sense of the benefits conferred on society 
by Mr. Leigh Hunt will be made while yet the act of gratitude can 
vr&na and cheer the heart of the benefactor. Rumours are afloat that 
some few fellow-authors intend making an efibrt to rouse the attention 
of the publicj and we trust that something like a national demonstration 
will ensue. 

It is impossible to peruse any of Mr. Hunt's books without some 
such reflections as the foregoing presenting themselves : and the two 
volumes now before us are particularly suggestive of them. In 
the numerous and varied essays of this series ; the principles we have 
Eluded to are prominent. If Goldsmith could touch nothing but what 
he ad<»ned> it may be said of Leigh Hunt that he touches nothing 



90 HSW BOOKS. 

vi&omt extnctuur beauty from it, aod-withont impartinff a leme ci it 
to hia teadeio. jlost of the e«a^ hayeappeai«d i^Wious periodicals, 
and eomist either of original dis^rtationiiTciiticinng on p^nlar onb- 
jects : and they comprise, ^e think, some of his most delightful writing. 
He criticism on feLde beauty is sfArkling with the most lustra^ 
imagination, and touches the senses, without for a syllable 8nll3ring the 
spiriktel nature of the subject. The infinite variety of the elegant 
scholarship would alone make them interesting and valuable. It is a 
most choice collection, and shows, too, in our opinion, the perfection of 
essay writing. We have not space for much quotation, but the follow- 
ing so fuU^ elucidates our notion of the principle that animates Mr. 
Hunt^s writings, that we cannot but give it. For the rest, we advise 
evexy one attached to the Belles4ettre8 in any way, to gratify themselves 
by readix^ the entire volumes. 

AN AFOLOQUB. 

^^ Daring a wonderful period of the world, the kings of the earth leagued 
themselves together to destroy all opposition ; to root out, if they could, the 
very thoughts of mankind. Inquisition was made for blood. The ears of 
the groveUing lay in wait for every murmur. On a sadden, during this 
great hour of danger, there arose in a hundred parts of the world, a cry, to 
which the cry of the i^^tant Beast was a whisper. It proceeded from the 
wonderful multiplication of an extraor^axy creature, which had already 
turned the cheeks of the tyrants paiHd. It groaned and it grew loud : it 
spoke with a hundred tongues ; it grew fervidly on the ear, like the noise of 
millicms of wheels. And the- sound of milUona of wheels was in it, together 
with other marvellous and awfiil'noises. There was the sharpening of swiwds, 
the braying of trun^kets, the neighing of war-horses, the laughter of solemn 
voices, the rushing by of lights, &e movement of ini^atient feet^ a tread as if 
the world were coming. And ever and uion there were pauses with ' a 
still small voice,' which made a trembling in the night lime. But still the 
glowing sound of the wheels renewed itself; gathering early towards the 
momiug. And when you came up to one of these creatures, you saw, vrith 
fear and reverence, its mighty coim>rmation, b^g like wheels indeed, and a 
great vapour. And evor and anon the vapour Iknled, and the wheels went 
reUing, and the ereatore threw out of its mouth visilde words, that fell tnlo 
the air by raiHions, and spoke to the uttemaost parts of the earth. And Ute^ 
nations (for it was a laving though a fearful creature) fed upon its words hke 
the air they breathed: and the moDacehs paoaed, for they knew tfaeir 
masters. 

^^ This is Printing by Steam. — It will be said that it is an aBegory^ and 
that all allegories are but fictions, and flat ones. I am far from producing it 
as a specimen of the poetical power now in existence. Allegory itself is out 
of fEishion, though it was a favourite exercise of our old poets, when th& 
public were familiar with shows and speetacles. But allegory is the readiest 
shape into which imagination can turn a thing mechaniod ; and in the one 
before us is contamed the mechanical truth and the spiritual truth of tl»t 
very matter-of-fact thing tsaUed a PrintiDg Press : each of 'them as true «8ili& 
9lBbet^ oiffumikser eonld take i^aee. A founaess of wreiinkaDd iBoa<wlMria is^ 



NSW BOOKS. 91 

OP appeals to be, a very eommon-^pUce matter ; pat not bo the will of the 
hand thai sets them in motion ; not so the operations of the mind that 
directs them what to ntter. We are satisfied xespectinff the one by science ; 
but what is it that renders ns sensible of the wonders of the other, and their 
connection with the great mysteries of natnre ? Thought — Fancy — Imagin 
station. What signifies to her the talk about electricity, and suction, and 
gravitation, and alembics, and fifty other mechanical operations of the mar- 
vellous ! This is but the bone and musde of wonder. Soul, and not body^ 
is her pursuit ; the first cause, not the seecmd ; the whole effect, not a part 
of it ; the will, the invention, the marvel itself. As long as this lies hidden, 
she sfaH ^Emcies what agents for it die pleases. The science of atmospherical 
phenomena hinders not her angels from < playing in the plighted clouds.^ 
The analysis of a bottle of salt water does not prevent her from < taking the 
wings of the m<aming, and remaining in the uttermost parts of the sea.^ 
You must prove to her first, that you understand the simple elements, when 
deoonq)osed ; the reason that brings them together ; the power that puts 
them in action ; the relations which they have to a thousand things besides 
Ooraelves and our wants ; the necessity of all this perpetual motion ; the 
understanding that looks out of the eye ; love, joy, sorrow, death and life, 
the future, the universe, the whole invisible abyss. Till you know all this, 
jmd CBOL plant the dry sticks of your reason, as trophies of possession, in every 
quarter of space, how shall you oost her from her dominion ! " 



T^ SsqiUBNTIAL SlFGlKO MjLNUiL ; VoCAL EXERCISES ON THE SeQUENTTAI* 

System. London: Phonetic Depdt, Queen's Head Passage, Pater- 
noster-row. 

The " Sequential System " is the wwk of Mr. Arthur Wallbridge, 
author of ^'Torrington Hall,"&c. It was first brought out in 1843^ 
has since then been receiving constant developments, and is now pro- 
nounced to be complete. The works at the head of this notice are, we 
believe, the first in which the theory has been reduced to actual prac- 
tice. An obvious obstacle in the way of a reform in music, which is 
based on a thorough reform in the notoHim of music, is the want of 
compositions printed in accordance with the new method. This want 
Mr. Wallbridge proposes to remove by the gradual publication of music 
in the Sequential notation — ^particularly vocal part-music, which, as 
^ a description of compositions, at once tlie most easy of execution, and 
appealing to the largest number of persons," he considers it best to 
begin with. In the mean time, macmne-ruled Sequential paper is pre- 
pared for the use of those who wish to translate from the present nota- 
tion, or to copy oat these translations. For our own parts, we believe 
that the advantages of the "Sequential System" in tuition are so 
striking that the new method will iftake its way, and rapidly too, in 
spite of all obstacles. In the " Vocal YxexciBe^y forty-five Exercises, 
and nine Two-part Songs, with words, are given, which are a very fair 
sopply of Sequential music as a beginning. 

<f She staking cbMDacteastics of the Sequential relbnn,"' Mr. WaiUiMridge 



92 NEW BOOKS. 

■says, '^ may be described in a few words — as firstly, the redaction of the 
present artificially-constructed fowr-and^xomty major and minor keys to the 
■one natural scale of seyen sounds, denoted by some certain seren numerals 
^selected from the twehe numenUs which signify the twelve sounds of the 
chromatic scale ; and secondly, the reduction of the present various and 
perplexing ftmes to the only two natural kinds, double and triple. The 
absurd fiat cmd sharp signatures of the old notation — ^the meaningless leger- 
lines — the arbitrary clefs — are altogether swept away, and no difficulties are 
presented to the student of the Sequential System, except those really 
inherent in music itself. 

^' The Sequential reform is not, like some other methods of improved 
notation, a mere expedient for the easy acquisition of popular vocal music : 
it is a SyfAem, fitted for murac of any degree of complexity, and equally fitted 
for instrumental as for vocal music. As, however, it offers such wonderful 
facilities to instructors and students, when applied to pop^alar ckon^i singing^ 
it will probably spread in this form amongst the people, whilst its practice cm 
instruments is confined to a comparatively small number. All the methods 
of teaching class-singing now existing in Great Britain must certainly yield 
to the Sequential method, when the Utter is seen in more general operation^ 
and becomes better understood. 

''A feature of the Sequential Notation, which strongly recommends it to the 
attention of every person acquainted with the present system of notation, is 
that amateurs, who are now able to sing in any easy key — such as the key of 
C for instance — can, with hardly any practice, sing, at first sight. Sequential 
music in aU Tceys, The habit of singing from Sequential music, too, tends to 
make singing from music in the old notation less difficult." 

We recommend these works to all who are interested in progress, 
^nd we recommend them particularly to all teachers of class-singing, 
who are now straggling with the difficulties which the old method of 
notation throws in their path. 



History of the Conquest op Peru, with a Prelivinart View op 
THE Civilisation op the Incas. By Wm. H. Prbscott. 2 Vols. 
8vo. R. Bentley. 

Notwithstanding the numerons histories, not only in the English 
l)ut in every European language, and more especially the Spanish, of 
the wonderful series of events that ended in the possession of the two 
^eat empires of Mexico and Peru by the Spaniards, Mr. Prescott was 
folly justified in publishing his. Those which had previously appeared 
in English were compilations from the most popular of the Spanish 
historians, and adopted without examination of their statements. Of 
course it has ha{)pened in these transactions, as in all such, that every 
species of narrative, from every species of motive, was hastily put fortn 
"by those sharing or interested in the discoveries. For the philosophic 
and impartial historian these could only be considered as materials for 
.a history, and a long interval must elapse before the public mind would 



NEW BOOKS. 93 

require or endnre a calm and unimpassioned narrative of these events. 
The time and the man have however both arrived ; and Mr. Prescott^ 
having prepared himself by years of labour and examination in the 
archives of Spain^ has given to the world a trilogy of history which 
perhaps affords the best and clearest view that can be offered of this- 
romantic era. His first series, ^^ The History of Ferdinand and 
Isabella/' is an indispensable prelude to the other two. ^^ The History 
of the Conquest of Mexico" naturally followed in the order of chro- 
nology, and the present work completes the narrative of the fixing the 
Spanish domination in these wondrous regions. 

The story of these conquestai^nly awaits the pen of a true epic poet 
to make them the most interesting in the annals of the whole world, — 
the intense charm of the novelty of the regions : the wonder apper- 
taining to the discovery of a new hemisphere : or, as it was not hyper- 
bolically termed, a new world, — ^its scenery, productions, and races of 
inhabitants, all totally different from the old : and even at the present 
day, when description has been exhausted in endeavouring to pourtray 
it, striking the traveller with awe, and overpowering the imagination 
by the stupendous scale and prodigality of its wonders. The human 
interest attached to its discoverers and conquests, is as singular and as 
powerful. It would seem to be the expiring coruscation of chivalry : the 
restless and half savage spirit of enterprize that once carried the martial 
spirit eastward, suddenly found a new vent westward. The daring qualities 
of human nature never manifested themselves more singularly. The 
natural energies of all kinds of adventurers broke down the barriers 
even of the strong conventions of the age. That uneducated men 
should take the lead was not so surprising, for many men of rank were, 
according to bur application of the word, uneducated, not being able 
perhaps to write, or scarcely read : but men of the lowest conventional 
condition mingled alike with the highest in their crusade to the new 
world. Spain thus sent out to secure this region a most heterogeneous 
band ; amongst them remorseless ruffians, heartless zealots, with pas- 
sions of the most vehement kind, stimulating, however, their intellects^ 
and producing talent the most distinguished. «- 

The history of our soldiers in India affords— coming as they did from 
a more cultivated class, and existing in a more scrupulous age — suffi- 
cient instances of atrocities ; but, heated by a ferocious bigotry, the 
Spanish adventurers had, in their own estimation, an additional justifi- 
cation for their persecution of the mild and unresisting heathens. A 
few nobler spirits shed, however, a redeeming hue on the otherwise 
humiliating and revolting exposition of human nature. 

The theme is altogether so exciting and so vast that the mind requires 
the utmost sobriety in its narration ; and this Mr. Prescott has percep- 
tibly felt. He seeks rather to dim than to heighten the glowing scenes 
he has to depict : regarding — ^perhaps somewhat too much — ^the political 
results and the unadorned facts. He intimates, in his preface, that 
Barrante^ the historian of the Flemish middle ages, has been a kind of 



94 NEW BOOKS. 

model to him ; but it appears to ua that our own historians of the last 
ceatury — Hume and Robertson*— have contributed more to the formation 
of his principles and the modulation of his style as an historian. The 
modem French writers, Michelet, Thierre, and even Barrante, have 
more in view the intention of reproducing the veritable existence of the 
era they recite ; whilst what has been termed the philosophical, but 
should be termed the logical school, like Voltaire in France, and the 
writers who followed Bolingbroke's model in our own, seek more to 
abstract the facts, leaving the colouring of* the age and circumstances 
quite out of view. We think, a little less of the logical, and a little 
more of the picturesque element, woiald, with subjects like those 
Mr. Prescott has treated of, have been more appropriate; and that 
Don Trueba was very right, when, excusing the lightness of his style, 
he said, ^'such romantic events could not be treated of in the common 
language of bulletins." Such as it is, it must, however, be acknow- 
ledged as. a very valuable history, written with great sense and impar- 
tiality, and composed with unwearied labour and research. 

The preliminary view of the civilisation of the Incas is very interest- 
ing ; and though betraying no particular political sagacity, or ethnogra- 
phic revealm^its, is well deserving the reader's closest attention. The 
narrative of the historic events is level and sober, and sometimes 
formble — always sensible and never mean. The romance of the 
subject, as we have already intimated, is, however, someway or other, 
allowed to evaporate, and we are continually debating and deliberating 
with statesmen and warriors, but seldom revelling with adventurers 
and freebooters. 

The following extracts will give some idea of the style :— * 

PIZABBD AND HIS BAND. 

^ On the 24ih of September, 1532, five months after landing at Tnmbez, 
Piaiarro marched out at the head of his little body of adventurers from the 
gates of San Miguel, having enjoined it on the colonists to treat their Indian 
vaasals with humanity, and to conduct themselves in such a manner as 
would secure the good- will of the surrounding tribes. Their own existence, 
and with it the safety of the array and the success of the undertaking, de- 
pended on this course. In the place were to remain the royal treasurer, 
^Mfeedw or inspeetor of metals, and other officers of the crown ; and the 
command of the garrison was intrusted to the corUador^ Antonio Navarro. 
Then putting himself at the head of his troops, the chief struck boldly into 
theiieart of the country, in the direction where, as he was informed, lay the 
camp of the Inca. It was a daring enterprise, thus to venture with a hand- 
ful of followers into the heart of a powerful empire; to present himself, £BM3e 
to face, before the Indian monarch in his own camp, encompassed by the 
flower of his victorious army ! Pizarro had already experienced more than 
once the difficulty of maintaining his ground against the rude tribes of the 
noiih, BO much inferior in strength and numbers to the warlike legions of 
Peru. But the hazard of the game, as I have already more than once had 
occasion to remark, coostituted its great charm with the Spaniard. The 



27EW BOOKS* 95 

IxoBiaiit adiMvemcnis ci hk eowatiymieiD. on tiie like oeeagaoiBB, wiih means 
«a uudequate^ iDspired him wkh.-confidence in his own good star ; and this 
confidence was one source of his snceeseL Had he faltered for a moment, 
had he sU^ped to calculate chances, he must inevitably have fulod ; for the 
odds wefe too great to be c(»nbated by sober reason. They were only to be 
met trhnnphanily by the spirit of the knight-errant.'' 

The following is a beantiful and well-drawn picture : — 

THE ENCAMPMENT OF ATAHUALLPA. 

^ The descent of the sierra, though the Andes are less precipitous on their 
eastern side than towards Ihe west, was attended with difficulties almost 
equal to those of the upward march ; and the Spaniards felt no little satis- 
fiiction when, on the seventh day, they arrived in view of the valley of 
Caxamalca, which, enamelled with all the beauties of cultivation, lay unrolled 
like a rich and variegated carpet of verdure in strong contrast with the 
dark form of the Andes thai rose up everywhere around it. The valley is 
of an oval shape, extending about five leagues in length by three in breadth. 
It was inhabited by a population of a superior character to any which the 
Spaniards had met on the other side of the mountains, as was argued by the 
superior style of their attire and the greater cleanliness and comfort visible 
bcih in their persons and dwellings. As far as the eye could reach, the 
level tract exhibited the show of a diligent and thrifty husbandry. A broad 
riTer rolled through the meadows, supplying facilities for copious irrigatian 
by means of the usual canals and subterraneous aqueducts. The land, inter- 
seoted with verdant hedge-rows, was chequered with patches of various 
cultivation ; for the soil was ricli^ and the climate, if less stimulating than 
that' of the soUry regions of the coast, was more favourable to the hardy 
prodnets of the tempemte latitudes. Below the adventurers, with its white 
hooses guttering in the smi, lay the little city of Caxamalca, like a sparkling 
gem on the dark skirts of the si^cra. At the distance of about a league 
farther across the valley might be seen columns of vapour rising up towa^s 
iheiieavens, indicating the place of the famous hot baths, much frequented 
by the Peruvian princes. And here too was a spectacle less grateful to the 
eyes of the Spaniards, for along ike slope of the hills a white cloud of 
pavilions was seen covering Ihe ground as thick as snow-flakes, for the space 
apparently of several miles. < It filled us all with amazement,' exclaims one 
of the Conquerors, ^to behold the Indians occupying so proud a position ! 
So many tents so well appointed as were never seen in the Indies till now. 
The spectacle caused something like confusion and even fear in the stoutest 
bosom. But it was too late to turn back or to betray the least sign of 
weakness, since the natives in our own company would in such case have 
been the first to rise upon us. So with as bold a countenance as we could, 
after cooUy surveying the ground, we prepared for our entrance into 
Caxamalca.' 

« What were the feelings of the Peruvian monarch we are not informed, 
when he gazed on the martial cavalcade of the Christians, as with banners 
streaming and bright panoplies glistening in the rays of the evening sun it 
emerged from the dark depths of the sierra, and advanced in hostile array 
over the fair domain which, to this period, luid never been trodden by other 
foot thfm that of the red man. It might be, as several of the reports had 



96 STEW BOOKS. 

stated, that the Inca had purposely decoyed the adventurers into the heart 
of his populous empire that he might envelope them with his legions, and 
the more easily become master of their property and persons. Or was it 
from a natural feeling of curiosity, and relying on their professions of friend- 
ship, that he had thus allowed them without any attempt at resistance to 
come into his presence ! At all events, he could hardly have felt such con- 
fidence in himself as not to look with apprehension mingled with awe on the 
mysterious strangers, who, coming from an unknown world and possessed of 
such wonderful gifts, had made their way across mountain and valley in 
spite of every obstacle which man and nature had opposed to them." 



A Plsa to Power and Parliament, for the Working Classes. By 
R. A. Slanet, Esq. London : Longman &Co. 

This gentleman was formerly member for Shrewsbury, and has been, 
and still is, we believe, one of Her Majesty's Commissioners for the 
Health of Towns. He has a clear head and a sound heart, and, in 
reference to the working classes, thoroughly appreciates the true policy 
of justice and the wisdom of philanthropy, l^owing that the physical 
force resides in the masses, he is anxious to bring it under the control 
of moral power, and while he properly repudiates any destructive scheme 
of dnumng down the rich to the wretched level of the poor, he avows- 
himseff eager to elevate the lower platform of society. He is far too 
modest when he says that he has sketched some remedial measures 
'^ with a faint outline and feeble pen ; " he has really produced an 
excellent little work, full of stubborn facts fortified by irrefragable 
statistics, and prescribed a course of public amelioration eminently 
practicable, in the spirit of an elevated and elevating philosophy. They 
who have not leisure to read ponderous blue books and copious reports^ 
will find a happy condensation of useful knowledge in this brochurCy on 
poor laws, crime, gaols, intemperance, education, and the general habits 
and position of the working classes. We cordially recommend it to the 
public. 



DOUGLAS JERROLD'S 

SHILLING MAGAZINE. 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER * 

BT THE AUTHOR OF "ORION.** 



CHAPTER XV. 

MB. BAINTON's YIEW OF JL FIT EDUCATION FOB HARDING. — IBISH FISHING 
BOATS. — MART AND MISS LLOTD VISIT HARDING. — THEIR OPINIONS ON 
THE VARIOUS ADVICES HE HAD RECEIVED. — ^ARCHER, AND HIS BARGAIN 
Itr BOOKS. — PRESENT OP A BUST OP SCHILLER. — NEW FIRM FOR IRISH 
SMACK-BUILDING. — ^MR. SHORT's HEART. 

** You know, Harding, that I have watched your course through 
life, with the eye of a father, as one may say ; not in affection, I 
make no pretences of that kind ; hut with the interest which a 
master ship-huilder might naturally he expected to have in a pro- 
mising young man, whom he had known from his earliest years, 
before his apprenticeship as a ship-wright, and ever since. I 
cotdd not hear to see you waste your time and strength, and those 
natural talents, as an artisan, which you undouhtedly possess. 
But what else hut a waste must it he for a man like you to soften 
ond mollify the good suhstantial heart-of-oak texture of your mind, 
in reading poetiy, and other dissipating and adulterating works of 
fiction and romance^ which relax the fihres and framework of a man, 
and sentimentalise his entire organisation ? Nohody douhts the 
intellect, the nohle principles, and the sincere intentions of Mr. 
Areher ; hut do not listen to his counsels, I heg of you, or it will he 
all over with you as a ship-wright. As for the advice which our good 
friend Walton has been giving you, it will do no harm, I dare say, 
and was probably all Very good, as far as it went. But what does 

* Continued from page 20, Vol. Yh 
KO. XXXn. — ^VOL. YI. H 



^ 



98 THE DBEAHEB AND, THB WOBEEB. 

Mr. Walton know of ship-building ?— of practical engineering ?- 
practical mechanics ? Why, no more than Mr. Archer or the 
moon. These are the things you need. Tou are a master of 
your work, and all its handicraft. You should now advance to 
the scientific principles upon which that handicraft is founded, by 
which it is strictly directed, and witl^ut which it cannot safely 
proceed a single inch. Do not misambcstandmo. I would not 
at all perplex your mind with the intricacies of science. I 
advise you only to study practical knowledge, and rules which ^^ 
necessary to your advancement as a ship-wright and builder, ^r 
instance, I do not wish you to confuse yourself over dif^Ut 
mathematical or ^peomotEical problems. I do not wish even that 
you should study logarithmic tables, either of numbers, or of lines 
and tangents ; that is, not at present, valuable and indispensable 
as they are ; nor a variety of ^ker tables, of the specific gravity 
and weight of materials ; of ^bs' specific cohesion and strength of 
materials ; resistance of woods to pressure ; resistance of metals 
to torsion, and so forth.. Still, there are many selecttons from 
these necessary for you to make inoiider toanire ^*' 

Here Haodii^ gav« a low, half-<8appi«s8ed> groan^ Mr. BaintOD 
made a grave and reproving -pause, and iJien proceeded in a tone 
0£ increased importance. . ' 

** Still,, I sa^jF, the]?e are many selectionft fimm these, pavts. of 
mechanieal science: which; wouM be most valuaUe to you if 
you seek to obtain a fit and pr<^r education* I allnde to a 
correct knowledge^ not only of the zesistance of different woods 
to pressure, but. t^ the apecifie strength, gsfiPFity, weight, cofae* 
sion, and elasticity of materials^ and of wooda mom espemaUy^ 
Then, you should certainly be able to find the relative: str^igth 
or force of Eesistance of rectangular beama. to transverse strain 
or pres«ire,T — whether the beam be fixed at' one end, and loaded 
at the otha», or when uniformly loaded ; whether the beamt be 
supported at both ends» and loaded in the middle ; whether the 
beam be sQppocted at both ends, obserw> and uniformly loaded ; 
or whether tke beam be fixed' at botk mi»^ and loaded in: the 
middle, or uniformly loaded, (nt loaded at a point not in thenoiddle.. 
You must absolutely be able tofind the deflectionB of beama imder 
tisansverse strains. Important atudieft,. did I call them I They 
are indispensable to yon in your position andoomse of life ; iihile» 
in themselves, nothing in the WM-Id could be more interestinj and 
delightful." . . \ 



'^I dcn't Icnow/' smrmored Harding with a wuH of oaljtn 
ohdxaacj^ ** I don't know that they would be to me the aoost 
defightfol Btaifiei in the world, Mr. Bftintoik I te^e ixr the 
^ Mediaaics' Magoaiiie.' **' 

'^ Well/^ said Mr, JSointonv extmidittg <me he&d. 

** And 1 finditriiBt suited to a mechanic, but to thoee who und^^ 
stand the soienoe oi mechanics. It is a meehaiticiaa'» magaBiaei. 
That, makes ait ih» diffi^^nce.. It is. juet the same as witii the 
Meehanios' Institetes. I wish we aoiiM- have a liieal Meefaanica* 
Institiitei and aneal Me^Aiiies'^ Magazine. I hope jou do-not iliink 
metm^atefiil ; bnt I eaonot bj any means make up my^mlnd to 
atody things I do< not need: mrm, iind whick eatt> only be< needed m 
posMons- wJiiob I do not now^ hob in fixture, intmid to tajbew I am 
a working man, and I intend tR» remain: a workmgman." 

** I haare heaosd yon say tfai» befioie,'' said Mr. Bainton, graToIy. 
^ Yon mean to adhero to it, then. %*^ 

" I do," said Hardin^. 

Mr* Baingtbn remained tibiK^htM some tune, and a Aade of 
Bd^aneholf came over ld» haid sqwHie features^ 

** I hsnre no? &mily-^no relatioiis, " proeeeded he at lengtib ; '^no 
son, im whose pvogresa linwigh life^ I coidd take an interest. Ifes* 
Bnmton is a vevy good and pious woman^. but she is noimuoh eoiit» 
pony for me. I o^^en feel very lonely^ and I should have been 
giad to have bad a sen ; and someisimes I almost resolve to adopt 
ona^ only my w'da might trouble me about that. Weli»--»and se 
you. don't like to study to beooma a mast^ i^p*builder^ and to 
&Baw m my steps f WbsA do yoa say to boat*buildiBg f " 

^' Ok I but I can do, ti^t already. I onca built boi^s in Canada 
to my cost.*' 

- ** I know. But would you like to. build fishing-smach^^-* 
leaving your position in the Dodkyard, for which, you should haive 
due compensation by tho' security of oontinnoua employment with 
Boe? You woald be more independent." 

** Not if I- were in;, any shape a partner, " sakt Harding : ** I 
will be no. propriet(Hr or master, only a w<»kkig mam A leading 
man, H you please— <4>ut still an operative. '' 
' Mk Bainton contintied son» time witk hisi head bent towards 
the gnound. At liraig^b he entered into a full explanation with 
Harding. It was te tiiis.efiSect — ^tbat the movements of the new 
bi^ding*fLrmr Ibr Associated Homes wexe to be^ for a time, sns* 
pended> owing to several oau8e8,-«-4h& eh£^ of which was, the 

h2 



IPO THE DREAHEB AND THE WOBEEB. 

opinion that tbo public mind was not yet quite ripe enougli to 
support it. The firm were cautious men, and would not venture 
at present* Meantime a new project had been originated by Mr. 
Short, who had considerable connexions in Ireland. The coasts 
of Ireland were well known to possess great shoals of fish — ^the 
Irish fishermen could not obtain them for the want of piers and 
harbours, and sea-worthy boats. Now, the present project was to 
-establish a fishery on some good part of the coast abounding with 
fish, where there were natural bays and inlets that would serve aa 
harbours, and to build a number of excellent fishing-smacks. By 
this means they would take an incalculable quantity of valuable 
fish, not attainable at present by any of the Irish fisheries, where 
eterything is deficient— except the fish.. The conversation then 
turned upon Harding's resignation of his position in the Dockyard, 
which he did not much like to do notwithstanding the guarantee 
ofier^d him. However, he asked a few days to consider the 
proposal. 

. Meanwhile the biulding of Mr. Walton's pleasure-boat advanced 
rapidly. Harding gave about an hour a-day to it, and worked 
iwijbh cheerful assiduity, the more so as his boat-house was con- 
tiuually visited by pleasant friends. Sometimes Mr. Walton would 
come in, and discourse away at a great rate as to the excursions 
he proposed to make when the weather was extremely fine and 
smooth ; sometimes Archer came and reiterated and enlarged 
upon the advice he had given Harding as to his self-education ; 
sometimes Mr. Sainton came, and reiterated his, — ^followed by 
Mr. Walton, who declared that his advice was the only sensible 
one suited to Harding's circumstances, and prospect in life ; and 
sometimes Mary and Miss Lloyd paid Hai*ding a visit, and seemed 
rather disposed to make merry with the variety of. conflicting 
rei^^ommendations he had received. . 

On one of these occasions Mary gradually fell into a more 
serious tone on the subject, declaring that she believed he might 
extract some good out of each — by far the most, of course, out of 
Archer's advice — but that she thought the best thing Harding 
could do, was to avail himself of every opportunity of conversation 
with these friends . of his, upon the subjects they chiefly recom- 
mended ; by which means they would, in some sort, teach, lam, 
and that he would thus acquire a great deal more in a short time 
than. if he endeavoured io learn by himself from books, in which 
Sk student can very seldom find an answer to the questions he 






THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 101 

most wishes to ask. Miss Lloyd coincided in tbis opinion ; and 
finally the two ladies smilingly exhorted him to converse most 
with those he liked best, and upon those subjects which "he him- 
self wished to know something about, and not what his advisers 
thought to be the most important things in the world* 

To all this Harding listened most attentively ; and when the 
ladies left him, he stood for several minutes immoveable over his 
work, and looking down into the bottom of the boat with an 
expression of face at once thoughtful emd delighted. While he 
was thus engaged. Archer came sauntering in. 

** Why, Harding I " said he, " you are not working — ^you are 
dreaming!" 

Harding started a little, and coloured. 

** Oh, you can well afford the time for this," continued Archer, 
pleasantly. ** You always work hard enough to earn the right 
to a good, heavenly reverie, at least once a-day. And nothing 
can be better for you. It is just the food that is good for the 
soul of a man like you. Substantialities can always take care 
of themselves, and you have more than your share of hard solid 
things already." 

After some brief conversation. Archer drew a folded slip of 
paper out of his waistcoat pocket, and gave it to Harding. ** All 
this morning," said he, **I have been thinking of what you said 
about the city of the Millions, which is within the city of the Few 
— the dark and filthy city which is invisible, and which has no 
name. It is very true ; yet how difficult to make clear to the 
understanding of those who do not know its truth. The over- 
crowded courts and alleys of such places as Bethnal Green and 
Whitechapel, are populous parts of the city of the operatives — but 
who knows of those places ? Who would call those courts and alleys 
*^ London? " These hard realities have suggested some verses. 
The poem shall be dedicated to you, Harding, for you were its 
originator — its primal idea. Do you feel uncomfortable at being 
thus reduced to the first forms of things — ^melted back into the 
elements of thought ? " 

Harding smiled, and thanking Archer, took the paper and put 
it carefully into his pocket. Soon after this Archer went away. 
He had felt himself sweetly troubled and tingling all the morning 
with poetical impulses, and of course there was no relief for this 
but hurrying off into verse. 

When Archer was gone^ it appeared as if Harding was likely to 



102 TWR Z^JRBAMBK AKB THE W<«ES&. 

fidl again iiito a ^^verie^ amd one of a graver andleetepleasamble 
cjiaracter than that from which he had jnst been roused. He stood 
with th6 chisel in his hand, and a troubled brow. At length he 
ll^d it down, and drawing from his pocket the slip of paper gi7€si 
hixn'by Archer, he unfolded it, and read the following rerses >^ . 

THE UNSEEN CTTY. 

There is an Unseen City, 
As old afi Babylon, 
'Where cteftttires dwell in narrow holes. 
Burrows and crannies dark^ like moles ; 
Poor exiles from tiie son*- 
The eyer-wakefiil stars— the blessed moon ; 
Seeing no glory in the 'night or noon. 

li IS no black banditti 
That swaimi these eoonflefls Aens ; 
Where spiders weare above the head. 
With rats and mice beneath the bed ; 
Nor are the regions fens ; 
Nor do the inmates love the efts and toads 
And peiifcileirtial air of tliese unknown abodes. 

Are they of monstrous features. ' 
Elf, oaf, or bedlamite, 
Who swoll'n with sloth obscenely roll 
Midst filth and gloom, and odom« foul,- 
Curmng, and cursed, by light i 
Or can Ihey be some nations of a bmd 
Cast ovA from human eye by God's wise hand ? 

Who are the hideous creatures 1 
See! palace waHs divide ! 
A strange bell tolls — down falls the steeple t 

;« We ATIE THE WIDE W0RLD*S WoUKCTG PEOPLE, 

Who dwell thus thbvst aside ! 
Our city is around — beneath — behind — 
And, like our myriad graves, is Nameless — ^none can find ! ** 

Harding folded np the paper again. It was cnrionsly per- 
plexmg to his mind to find his own thoughts put into verse. He 
felt deeply grateful to Archer for the interest he thus manifested; 
and somehow, as Harding thought of all this, it made him very 
melancholy. He did not see how he could ever show any adequate 
gratitude to Archer. 

But as for Archer, he had gone away in a very happy frame of 
mind. It was quite clear that he had a poetry-fit upon him. 
We may infer ^hat he was fortunate enough at least to please 



himself, from the fact that the "Esme eyening he left his lodgings 
i^ilth a light and huof ant step and an excited air, and hegan to 
peramhulate the streets. after most vof the shops were shut up, with 
no apparent object in his ,mind, bat as if to relieve and disperse 
his sensations. 

Passing, howeyer, an old broker^s shop, the shutters of which 
were closed, while the man who kept it was solacing himself with a 
|ape in tlie middle of the fbor — ^ihe door being left open — ^Archer's 
attention was arrested by a great pile of books which ro^e up 
behind the man*s head, and were surrounded by ornament^ 
volumes of a less substantial kind — ^namely, of smoke. The broker 
had been a sailor ; had lost one 1^ ; had a pension ; and was a 
good-^natnred aaid rather humorous sort of a fellow. Seeing 
Aicher make a pause in front of his door, he rose and invited him 
io come in. If ^ipileof books he saw there were very attractive 
ie him, there ihey were ;at rhis «erviee I They had recently come 
into his possenion with a lot of old furniture for a bad debt. In 
his eady days men did not read as much as they do now. But 
now, he supposed, people might be found who would read right 
tiirough a good many of these old things. He would sell them 
cheap enough, and be glad of the riddanee. Thus discoursing, he 
snuffed the oandle with his fingers, and held it up in the air. 
On ezaminaiion. Archer found this stack of books to be the entire 
works of Voltaire, in ninety volumes, and of Goethe, in sixty volumes. 

^* A library ! " exclaimed Archer. " And how full of the 
richest materials of wit, of knowledge, of imagination, of design--^ 
of variety, never verging upon plagiarism ortriviality— of reason 
and wisdom, even when conveyed in the most grotesque or absurd 
forms — of energies inexhaustible by age — of old age which rather 
resembles the renewal of youth. '* 

*'fia! ha! ha! " roared the broker. **I was just going to 
!fmj you should have them all for a mere song ; but after what you 
liave said, I must have something handsome and worthy of these 
fine speeches." 

" Oh," said Archer, "I only said what I thought of their value.- 
I cannot afford to buy such a mass of books ; and I would recom- 
mend you by no means to sell them for a mere song, as they 
Appear to be complete, and are really valuable." 

" Well now, I call that handsome of you. But I will be as good 
as my word. I said— or I was going to say — ^you should have them 
for a song. Come how,, what will you .give ? " 



104 THE DSEAUEB AND THE WOBKEBt 

** Indeed, I cannot think of it.'^ 

** Yes, yes, you can. What will you give? WiU five pounds 
hurt you, and take the whole hoiling of them ? " 

'* What, the whole of them ! Why, any second-hand book- 
seller will give you double that sum, at least.' ' 

** I don't care for that 5 I'll sell them to you. If you'll give 
me five pounds, they're yours.'' 

Archer hesitated. Here was an opportunity ! Such a bargain 
would never offer itself again. It so happened that Archer's 
finances were just now at a low ebb, and a five pound note was 
literally all the money he possessed. But then, money was due to 
him for an article in a quarterly journal ; and a literary acquaint- 
ance, who had borrowed a small amount from him, would be sure 
to send it in a day or two, as he had promised. It was not 
pleasant to leave himself without a shilling ; still, this would only 
last for a few days, or hours perhaps, and such a bargain was 
not to be missed. He accordingly made the purchase, and handed 
over the money, together with his address, apologising for the 
smallness of the amount for books of so much greater value, and 
assuring the broker that he was doing himself a great wrong. 
The old fellow was so pleased with these handsome admissions, 
that he exhausted all his sea eloquence to induce Archer to step in 
and take a tumbler of punch ; finding, however, that he could not 
prevail, he bethought him of a great plaster bust of another 
outlandish person, named " Spiller," or ** Smeller," or somethmg 
like that, which he had got with the books, and had sent over to 
Gosport, to be painted red, and set up over a timber-yard. It was 
a cast from a celebrated marble one, by another eminent out« 
landish chap, whose name was written upon this bit of paper — 
*' Thorwaldsen.'* This cast he begged Archer would accept as a 
present, if he had any liking for such a thing. He had got an odd 
volume with the name of the bust in the title-page — ** Friedricb 
SchiUer." 

For some time Archer declined to listen to the proposal ; 
at lengthy however, he suffered himself to be persuaded, and 
departed, he and the old broker being equally pleased with each 
other. The books would be sent to-morrow ; for the bust, the 
broker was to write to Gosport, and it would be forwarded ta 
Archer by some means or other in a few days, and the caniaga 
should not cost him much. 

Other events of importance were now in rapid progrei3ia» 



THEDREAHER AND THE WORKER* 105 

* Within a week afiter the day on which Mr. Sainton had the long- 
conversation with Harding, a meeting took place at Mr. Short's 
lodgings, when it was finally determined that Mr. Walton, Mr, 
Short, and Mr. Sainton, should constitute themselves as the 
Acting Committee of a Company for Irish Smack-huilding, and th(> 
Provisional Committee of a projected Anglo-Celtic Company for 
Irish Fisheries — ^with power to add to their numher. Harding 
had agreed to join Mr. Sainton, who had also engaged two or 
three more first-rate hands, with whom he was to set out for 
Ireland in the course of a few weeks, and commence operations. 
Mr. Short said he should very shortly follow him^ and was most 
anxious that Mr. Walton should accompany. him. 

To this Mr. Walton decidedly objected, on account of the sea- 
voyage. True, it was only a voyage of sixteen or eighteen hours 
from Liverpool ; but a man might as easily be drowned in the 
course of eighteen hours as eighteen months — ^in fact^ it would 
take a very httle time to drown him, if he fell overboard, or the 
ship went to the bottom. Mr. Short assured him there was not 
the least danger ; that they could go over in the day, if he 
disliked a night trip ; that he did not ask Mr. Walton to remain 
in Ireland, but only to pay him a visit in Dublin for a short time, 
together ,with Miss Walton, who would find many sources of 
amusement in that city, while they combined business with 
pleasure in taking a jaunt along the coast of Waterford, and other 
counties, to taste the fish. 

" Bat, or be eaten ! " murmured Mr. Walton. " I do not much 
fancy the alternative ; nor do I at all know that my daughter 
would like to go. However, we will see about it. I can ask her ; 
and she can talk the matter over with Archer. Perhaps he would 
like to go." 

" Oh, but it would scarcely be worth Mr. Archer's while," ex- 
claimed Mr. Short, ** as your stay would be so brief ; and I fear, 
besides, that my house in DubHn is scarcely large enough to 
enable me to include him in the invitation — as, of coiurse, I should 
wish to do.'* 

The last words were drawled out by Mr. Short with an uncom- 
fortable expression. The fact was, he did not want Archer ta 
come — ^it would interfere with his plan — ^he was altogether per- 
plexed at the idea. In truth, Mr. Short did not at present know 
whether he had any real design upon Mary's heart, — or whether 
his own was seriously affected, and the encouragement of a very 



iB^&rent fund. ' He m^ed« however, iviiJiihe deolaratioo Aat 
Hr. WakoQ Bkuwdd do wkalever was mofit.a^ees^Oito hiisfldf.) 
and, moreover^ ihe time for ikeir dcq^arlivo had not yet arrived; 
.Something important was to preoede •thia. . Mr. Short annoimoed 
that he had hit upon a bright 'thought .for jnuaing f unda to aaaiat 
iiiem in cflq[»ital. He woi^d not just now tell them what it waa» 
but it was aomething whixsh would produce a public aenaati0B^ 
and hvii^ their prefect into notorietj % the moat admirable .of all 
meanaof ad?ertia«nent, via^ an extenwe <a^ertiaement» which 
would inogeaae their fuuda inatead cf being paid nut >of them. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

jnH. SHORX'S PBOJBCr OP AN AMATEUR DRAMATIC PBRFORHANGE. — ^MR. WALTON 
8TU0IBB THE PART OF TITUS ANDRONICUd. — ^ARCHERTB CRITIQUE ON THE 
TRAOBDT. — IIR. WALTON QUARREIfi WITH ARCHHR.— MARt AND ItBH 
XyUHTDOO VOR A BAIL Jff .«HE NBW BOAS WIXH MkSSSBXB,'-rAMCaBBL JJBBI 

iUISBOOKa. 

It turned out ihat ihe bright idea whioh Mr. Short raunouneed 
to have dawned upon him, waa aiothing lesa <than an amateur 
dramatic perfcomaaGe of onoof Shakspeare's tragediea, in aid of 
the Irish fisheries. He explained to his friends that he -intended 
ihe proceeds (to he devoted to -^eir patriotic project of smack- 
building, as the first natural and necessary step in the premotiott 
of successful filing in Ireland. Mr. Walton said he trusted that 
nothing in the "shape of deception upon the public wasinvolYed ia 
the undertaking, and nothing that savoured of a *'job." Mr. 
^OFt laid his hand upon his breast, assuring him ihat, so far from 
the slightest deception or under-hand work being contemplated, he 
intended to announce himself Honorary Secretary and Treasurer, 
and to pledge hims^ that eveiy farthing <of the receipts of the 
night should be devoted to assist their undertaking in Ireland. 
He should call upon all the nobility and gentry, army and navy^ of 
Portsmouth and the vicinity, to assist him. Mr. Walton aaidr 
there could be no. harm in that. So they proceeded, forthwith, to 
aelect a play. 

It must be frcnn Shak^eere. Something highly legitimate 
and classical, in carder to be as far as possible removed from ther 
ordinary exhibitions at the Portsmouth theatre. Something, at 
the same time, dreadful and original, in order to satisfy a taste for- 



i 



llflii0ni yriutek mon siamfestl^ rexy popidar m ihene ptoto. Alsd^ 
Miii0!thiBg6koclEfng--^in4be sense of a drmnatic shoGk-^-Jwhioh y^ 
itoold not be of ^a kind to shock the nerires of ladies too seriously^ 
nor outrage their sense of dedoruui to an unbearable degreob 
Btlt^as it was sageihf' iemai^«d by Mr. Waltoi), the .public would 
hear ;ahxi08t anything 'under the name of Shakspeare ; he was 
thera&ife theoi^ poet, for their purpose ; and of all his tragedies 
the one beitt «idted to <^eir wishes was " Titus Andronieus/' 
That it contained some -eoenes, and a few repressions here and 
there, whieh no modem ^idienoe whatever would be likely to 
^mdiire, under any authority or pretenoe^ was admitted by Mr. 
Short ; all this, 'how0vor, £Ould be managed ; and he and Mr* 
Walton peeeeded in due form to erase and alter, acoovding to 
their jud^ent, and the requisition of their stage, just as manageni 
and actors do widi the other (undoubted) plays of Shakspeare. 

Was there ever such a play as '< Titus Andronicus," for 
f'isttong ef^t?" Certainly not. ''None but itself could be ite 
pURsHel." The British ipublic had never seen it acted — ^that ia^ 
never within the memory of man ; for there is no knowing how 
often it migfat haive been acted in the ^ttme of Elizabeth, wl^ the 
public irtomach was so muqh stronger*. But did not this very 
faeot a£ superior strength in the re^cm aforesaid, Tender, the 
attempt to revive ihis glut of tragic horrors very ^temeritous, and 
of ^equivocal result? They reasoned upon this. Yes, it did, in 
one some ; it did mot in another sense ; it was all the better for 
them, on the one hand ; and if the tragedy was damned (all the 
ti^ets having been paid for) what did Mr. Short care? Besides, 
the name of Shakspeare supported them, and it was not etiquette 
ever to -damn the acting of amateurs, even if execrable, of which 
there «ouId be little apprehension in the present case* It was as 
well, however, to exercise some degree of prud^ice ; they deter- 
mined, therefore, that a private play^biU should be circulated^ 
fOinouncing that, on a. certain night, at the Theatre^Eoyal, Porta- 
mouth, '' a party pf distinguished amateurs, by particular desire, 
win have the honour, under the highest patronage, to represent 
SiAkspeare-s inimitqA>le tragedy of 'Titus Androuious' — the 
horrors being all adapted to the modern taste." 
. Now, Mr. Walton was pretty well aware, in his own mind, of 
the absurdity of the whole proceeding, and perhaps liked it all 
fhe better on that account ; but Mr. Short, though quite a man of 
the world, was pw:tly blinded by his vanity in the idiea of the fine 



108 THE DEEAHEB AITD THE WOBKXB, 

figure he should make dressed up in crimson hsAze and rahbit^s 
fur, as the Emperor Satuminus, and partly by the conceited 
self-complacency he felt in carrying out his bright idea of obtain* 
ing patronage and notoriety for their new project in Ireland. 

They proceeded to distribute the dramatis penonas in the 
following manner : — Satuminus was to be represented by Mr. 
Short — ^he had already ordered the dress. Titus Andronicus was 
to be enacted by Mr. Walton, who could naturally assume a 
venerable and stately presence. Archer would, no doubt, feel a 
pleasure to appear as a Tribune of the People, and would there- 
fore jump at the part of Marcus Andronicus. There was some 
doubt as to whether Bassianus, who is in love with Layinia* 
would not be a good part for Archer, and Mr. Short said it might 
be as well to give him his choice ; but if Archer declined the 
latter, then Mr. Short had a young lawyer in his eye, who would 
do it capitally, or, at all events, pretty well considering. The 
Senators and Tribunes of the People, who do not speak, might 
be very well represented by Harding, and several tall, respectable 
shipwrights whom he could recommend. Mr, Carl Kohl would 
also look very well, dressed as a Senator ; and Mr. Downs should 
be one of the leading Goths. Mr. Walton laughed very much at 
this. A dashing young artillery officer had agreed to take the 
part of Lucius ; and a Major of the garrison — ^a very short, and 
very corpulent gentleman, with a broad, red, salamander face — haA 
already called twice upon Mr. Short in a state of great excitement, 
begging that the part of Aaron the Moor might be reserved for 
him. The rest of the characters would be filled up from the 
company already engaged at the theatre. 

"I almost think," said Mr. Walton, pausing, "that we had 
better not go on with this. I like the idea vastly. It amuses and 
interests me excessively. I think I could speak Andronicus weD 
enough, even in the longest speeches ; I should try and dress him 
well, before a large glass ; and I think I could look him well, 
— do all his weeping well, and walk him well ; — but somehow I 
begin to feel very nervous about it, and from the crown of my 
head to the sole of my foot, there is something within me thai 
wishes to back out of the whole affair." 

Mr. Short took great pains to re-assure the nervous gentlenumt 
and having eventually succeeded, sat down to write notes to 
Archer and several others. Mr. Walton walked briskly hornet 
and with an imposing air told Mary all about it. 



THE BBEAICEB AND THE WORKER. 109 

''Does ArcHer know of this? !' asked Mary with rather an 
uncomfortable look. 

" By ihis time he does, no doubts" said Mr. Walton. ** The 
secret has been yery closely kept up to to-day. I have just left 
Short writing a note to inform Archer that we count upon his 
Bendces as an excellent representative of Marcus Andronicus, 
or of Bassianus. He was also to write a note to Captain Stan- 
dish Holland, to inform him that the part of Lucius, the spirited 
son of Titus Andronicus, and afterwards emperor, is allotted to 
him ; and another note to Major Grimshawe, to assure him that 
the character of Aaron, the diabolical Moor, will be expressly 
reserved for him, and that the gentlemen who are getting up 
the tragedy, are highly flattered by the interest he has expressed 
in the part, and feel confident that it will find a most appropriate 
representative in him." 

** But," said Mary, with a troubled air, *' I heartily wish you 
were not to be one of the performers in this horrible tragedy — 
and especially, the principal hero of it — so very unsuitable to you 
in all respects.*' 

" Don't be a wet blanket to yoiu* loving father, my dear," ex- 
clainied Mr. Walton impatiently, and rather nettled. '* Don 't 
check my happy impulses — don *t seek to prevent those harmless 
recreations which are needful to my health of body and mind — 
and don 't be blind to the under-current of business there is in all 
this apparent extravagance. Short is a deep card, I can assure 
yon." 

Mary very much dbubted the depth of the whole pack in which 
imclL a card as Mr. Short could assume any position of profundity ; 
she, however, said no more. She had been accustomed ever since 
the death of her mother to humour her father in most of his fancies, 
and to find a pleasure in his peculiar humours, both of speech and 
action, so far as private life was concerned ; and although she was 
much annoyed at his present intention of exhibiting them in 
pnblic, and in a character where they could not be otherwise than 
most inappropriate, she determined not to oppose him in the 
matter, and to give him what assistance he needed in studying 
and^ dressing for the part. She was, however, secretly in hopes 
that something would happen, or that he would alter his mind 
before the fatal night arrived. 

As next week was fixed for the first rehearsal, there was no 
time to lose, and Mr. Walton immediately commenced his study 



110 TUB' BRBAIfSR AND TEES WORKBR; 

<tf ' the arduons part of Titus Ancfexmicufi. He reqnestec^ Mnry to 
copy out all the more lengthy speeches that fell* to hts lot, and he 
Wished her to do so from his dietation. ' Seizing the book^ there- 
fme, and placing hims^ in an attitncfe in ihe middlls^ of the room^ 
tnUi a sonorous iFoice and' sententiicms euphony, he pvonounce^^' ^e 
fint f«if lines of 'Htuv s opening speech, af^ his^ en1a:ttnce, pxi^ 
ceded by a flourish of trumpets, and accompanied By the coffi^ of 
«ne of his 8on» : — 

*'Hm1! Borne! victorious in tbymounupgwoeds.'' 

*^ Hare," sciid Mr.. Walton* ** ^o: hean^nft XfiQ^ o£ oomai^ m* 
down the coffiui of w^ bcrl in » conspicmrat plane on mf htk 
hand :-. — 

<* Ik]^ t' asthe^bttrk iiiAt has dtteharged her ftmigli^ 
Retoms with precious lading to &e bay 
From vfhmee, at first, lahe weidiedhfor andlBrage^, 
Cometh Andronicus, bound with lauvel bougjt)^ , 

To rensalute his country with his tears : 
Teass of t)?iie joyfbr'his return to Bomoi . 

''Take care, Mary, that tihe night before Hio cepresjontatiiQiL we 
don 't forget the laurel boughs. Send to Thns^s,, the greengcocer'Sj^ 
for them, and set them in water in a wash-hand basin, to ke^ 
fresh and green for me to take with me to the theatre/' Uju 
Walton then proceeded to dictate all his owa s|teeejbes to the end 
of Act J. As there was not much for Titus to. say or do in tha 
second act, and as Mr. Walton had now become very impatient, ta 
arrive at the gceat excitements and woeS' of- the part,, thc^. jro-" 
ceeded at once to the third act. He was anxious, txi gjbre partacvhuB 
emphasis to the lines — ' ". 

**' For tw4>'Andf4iii8]ity sons I nerer w^^ 
Because they died in honour's lofty bed. 
For Ulese, good tribunes, in the dust I write 
My heart's deep languor, and my soul's sad tears: ''^ 

Here Mr. Walton slowly stooped, and, with a reddening fiwe,! 
gradually extended himself along the carpet.. ** I have now 
thrown myself upon the ground," said he, ** in utter misery,, on, 
account of the approaching execution of my two sons, Martius and 
Quintuft — 

^ Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite.! '* 

Mr. Walton drew fortii a large BaaNtdoiut siik handkordbsef, 
with; a brown patt^dnx upoa at yellow gfoond^ ao^ hdd it to. hiar 



Vaar BREASBS ASB THB WOBSBRi 111 

forelieadi ** Tou observe, Mary," said* lie, ** ibat wMle I give to 
the eye of the sudieiKJe the usual indica^a of a flood* of tears, I 
yet attend to the spirit of my author, by holding my handkerchief in 
such a position that it cannot intereept any of ther shower with 
iifhich Titus proposes to ' stanch the dry earth- s appetite.' " 

As it would have cost Mr. Walton a considerable eSBort to rise 
fcom tiiepo«ti«a of misery in which be had prostrated himself-— 
as the misery continued^ — and aa thei» was in &ct no stage diree* 
tionto the.efiect lliat Titus should rise—- he sat up, and continued 
the scene, raising his Toice to* its highest pitch, in accordance 
with. the fdl&winglines, — 

^ What fool bath added water to the sea I 
Or brought a faggot to brightTbumiag Troy f 
My grief wiwat the heigbt before thoa eam^s^ 
ButiHonv ^® Nikxfl^ it oiadaioetii hooaadok 
GrxTO ma &8waEd^I 'U ohop' off my hiaida^' 

** Don't you think, Mary, the right reading would be hand; £qx 
how. could he chop off both hands? Nevertheless, as both 
Layinia's hands had been chopped off, and Titus is threatening to 
do to himself what had been done to his daughter, the term hands 
is botii correct and impracticabliB. Never mind-<^I '11 take the 
passage as it.st^ds ; and I trust I shall produce a fine effect-r- 

^ My grief was at^ the height befbro thoa camfst^ 
But DOW, Uke NiluB, it disdaiheth bounds*" 

The door of the room opened^ and Arch^ entered. As Mr; 
Walton sat facing the door, with his hands extended, it appeared 
as if the liniea were addressed to Archer. 

, ^' Indeed, sir,'* said Archer, striving in vain to keep his cous^ 
tenance, " I coidd almost wish that a part of your present grief 
were a^ reality,, rather than that you should have lent yourself to 
tiua absurd undertaking. ' ' 

'* Absurd undertaking ! " said Mi*. Walton, putting hia^ large 
Barcelona handkerohief with, a flustered air into> his pocket. 
. ^* I can call it nothiog else," said Archer, '^if a note which I 
have just received from Mr. Short be seriously intended. Perhaps * 
it is only a joke ? " — and he turned to Mary, aa if to ask her to 
explain. , 

** They really mean to do it," said Mary, endea^uring to look 
unconcerned about it. 
.. ** Of eoocaft ine do/' said Mr. Walton, m^ booi the fioor^ 



*» 



112 THE DREAMER AKD THE WORKER. 

with the hook in his hand, closed, hut keeping the place with his 
fore-finger. ** I hope you don't decline to take the part of Marcus 
w^Jidronicus ? " 

" I certainly must decline it," 

" Bassianus, then ? " 

** And Bassianus too»" 

** What part will you take, then ? You don't mean to say that 
you 'U decline altogether to join us ? We huild upon you." 

** I am sorry/* said Archer, " you should do that. Nothing 
should induce me to join in such an attempt.'* 

"Why not?" exclaimed Mr. Walton. "You quite astonish 
me ! You, a poet and a reformer, decline to avail yourself of a 
fayourahle opportunity of repeating the poetry of immortal Shak- 
speareinpuhlic, and of having the nohle words of a trihune of the 
people, or a devoted lover, put into your mouth. 1 say again, 
that 1 am astonished at it. What can possihly be your motives ? " 

"1 have a general dislike to the whole thing," replied Archer, 
and some reasons in particular." 

" As for your general dislike," said Mr. Walton, " thatiotii \ 
(and he gave a loud snap with his finger and thiunb) ; " hut with 
regard to your particular reasons, perhaps you would do me the 
favour to mention a few of them ? " 

'* In the first place," said Archer, " I do not believe the tra- 
gedy to have been written by Shakspeare." 

** You don't ! Why don't you ? It is always included with the 
rest of his works, and there is the same authority for it, is there 
not, that there is for any of the others ? " 

*' Not the same authority, I think. There may be printers 
authority for it, and antiquarian research may be in its favour, 
but internal evidence is wanting ; nay, is strong against it." 

. " Oh ! you literary gentlemen are always full of strange notions, 
and whims, and figments, which you flatter yourselves are proofs 
of original thinking. In what play of Shakspeare's will you find 
more noble and sententious declamation, more towering eloquence 
of grief, more mellifluous versification, than in ' Titus Andro- 
nicus ? ' Where, for instance, let me ask you, will you find any* 
thing more imposing than in the lines ? — 

'^ For now I stand as one upon a rock, 
Enyiron'd with a wilderness of sea. 
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave P 

, Mr. Walton had placed himself in a dignified attitude upon the 



THE BREAHEB AND THE WORKEB. 113 

bearth-rog, and extended his hands alterbatelj to tlie different 
articles of fiimitcire in the room— - 

^' Expecting ever when some envious surge 
Will in \Sa brinish bowels swallow him. 
This way to death my wretched sons are gone ! 
ffen stands my other son — " 

Mr. Walton pointed to the coal-scuttlei but without seeing it. 

'^a banished man ! 
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.^ 

Mr. Walton pointed to Mary as the imaginary representative of 
his weeping brother. She turned her head aside, while Archer 
stooped to adjust one of his boots, in order to govern his risibility. 
I "No one," said Archer, as soon as he was able to speak, 
" can deny the existence of splendid passages, mixed with many 
which are preposterous and revolting ; it is the general design of 
the tragedy, no less than many of the component parts, which I 
think essentially un-Shakspearian. They equally set the natural 
elements of passion, reason, and the dramatic art, at defiance." 

'' As to the dramatic art of the Elizabethan dramatists," ex- 
claimed Mr. Walton, ** 1 know no more about it than Aristotle ; 
but for what you say about passion and reason in ' Titus Andro- 
nicus,' here are the lines that shall put you down — 

^ If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad^ 
Threatening the welkin with his big-swollen face ! 
^ And wilt thou have a recMon for thu coil I 
I am the sea I ' " 

" The prodigality of disgusting horrors," replied Archer, ** not 
only unfit to be exhibited on a stage, but even imfit to be read, 
makes me doubt the play to have been written by Shakspeare. It 
IS more like the work of another great but disorderly genius of the 
same period. I have many reasons for thinking this. Here are 
a few of them. By the mixture in ' Titus Andronicus' of splendid 
power with gross bombast ; of the most affecting tenderness, alter- 
nating with the most brutal ferocity ; by a certain monotonous 
sweetness in the versification, the more conspicuous when gently 
announcing some horrible atrocity ; by the presence of a reckless 
and remorseless will, and the absence of all judgment, wise moral 
sentiments, and knowledge of the world ; by the mechanical 
structure of the lines, which seldom contain the eleventh, or 
apoggiatnra syllable, and scarcely ever end with a double syllable 

yo. XXXH.— VOL. VI. 1 



114 13S1S raSAMSft ASD 1SB W0KK8E. 

(both of whioh are eonunoii in Sliaki^eare) ; fcj the mtrodudioa 
of Jiatin lines and couplets ; by the hai^-fftvoured and imiiitereBtiBg 
characters of the women ; and bj a disposition to sceptical specu- 
lations — to defy the godsh — and to pluiige with the passion of the 
hour into eternity, imd identify the inunediate fire of the heart 
with infinite space and futurity — I should say that this tragedy 
was the work of Christopher Mailowe.** 

" Well, sir," said Mr. Walton, after a pause, " all I shall say, 
in reply to your critique, is simply, that it is mis-timed and 
unfriendly. If you had been disposed to take a part in the play 
yourself, we should have heard nothing of all this ; nor do I much 
ihink you would have troubled yourself about the matter, if pro- 
fessional actors had been going to perform the tragedy. It is 
merely because we are amateurs that you fell upon our tragedy 
in this unfeeling manner. No doubt you think that amateurs can 
only make themselyes ridiculous — that nothing is to be done on 
the stage, without the regular course of training for years," 

" I assure you, sir," said Archer, " that I am influenced by no 
such feeling, and that I think no such thing. I believe that a 
man, to be a good actor, must be bom one ; though he needs, 
like the poet, both study and practice to attain perfection, as a 
whole, and for the entireness of any representation. Without 
original genius, it is all in Tain, and no long course of study and 
practice can make him a fine actco*. But with genius, a very 
little of this work will enable him to aeeomplish all the essential 
parts admirably ; as we have often seen. Admirable actirs are 
very rare indeed upon the stage ; they abound in private life. 
The art is over-rated." 

"Then, in Heaven's name!" ejaculated Mr. Waltcna, "why 
are you not with us ? You blow hot, and you blew cold. What 
are you driving at ? " 

" I merely meaat," said Archer, *'to express my aversion to 
the representation of Ihis tragedy, and to sedng a man like your- 
self, whom I respect for his kmdly heart, and many exo^nt 
qualities — indepeadeat of my position with regard to your daughter 
— thus exposing himself in public as the perpetrator of akocking 
horrors." 

" But they will all be adapted to the modem taste/' interposed 
Mr. Walton. 

At tbtSy Archer could restram himse^ no longer. 

** Hands chopped ofi^ or Ihroats out<-^heads hroaghtja upon the 



WM DIQBAICBR AKD THS VOBEEB. 115 

stage — ^to say notluDg ei a baman pie 2 Bj what substitution of a 
Newgate hangman, a Okre-market butcher, or the skill of a Gunter 
or Sojer, can joii possibly adapt these things to the modern taste ? 
Had you chosen some play within the bounds of decency, and 
selected for yourself some character appropriate to your natural 
|>leasant humour, cordial nature, and portly English appearance; 
the case would hare been different.*' 

** Portly English appearance I " cried Mr. Walton, with warmth ; 
for, although he would have felt complimented by this ^t any 
oth&r time, he was now inflated with the idea of being Titus 
Andronicus — " I imderstand you, sir ! you mean to say that I am 
too fat for the part — ^that I am too John Bullish. I know what 
jou mean." 

** Mary," cried Archer, reproachfully^ •* how can you have 
encouraged your father to get himself into this outrageous 
position — ^this unnatural state of mind ? " 

'* My father does as he pleases,** answered Mary, with an 
e<|ually reproachfal tone, and a yexed look. She thought Archer 
tcK> unsparing in his remarks. 

** I declare I feel ashamed of you both," said Archer — " it is 
my regard for you that compels me to say this. Don't you both 
see how absurd it all is ? And Mr. Short, too, talks of it as a 
£ne stroke of business — an advertisement — a means of obtaining 
notoriety, and some insignificant sum of money to help a fishing 
project — a project to take away the fish, wMch the poor Irishmei^i 
cannot obtain for themselves for want of boats and capital ! *' 

*' Mr. Archer \ '* exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening, and 
stamping upon the hearth-rug till the dust flew all over bis 
gaiters, " I did not send for you to ask your advice — and you are 
net entitled to insult me with your opinion.*' 

" As Mary's father, I beg your pardon," said Archer. '* I did 
not think of oflending." And with this Archer bowed^ and 
Immediately left tibie room. 

While our histrionic amateurs were busily engaged with their 
widertaking, Mr. Walton^s new boat grew rapidly under Harding's 
hands. It was completed, and launched ; and the day being fine 
Harding went to Mr. Walton to propose that he should be the first 
io have a sail in her. 

^*I rejoice to hear that my boat is completed,'* said Mr, 
Walton, " but you must perceive that I eannot avail myself of the 
appoftunUy, however favourable and delightful,— 

i2 



116 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

^ For now I stand as one npon a rock, 
Environed with a wildemefH of sea ! 
If the winds nge, doth not fhe sea wax mad 1 
So that he fears tiie big-swollen envious surge 
Will in its brinish bowels swallow him.** 

** Dear me ! how difficult it is not to confound one speeeli with 
another. I have gone wrong somewhere, only in these few linear'^ 
'* But do have Uie first sail in your boat/' siud Harding, ** if it 
is only for half an hour." 

'* Impossible," said Mr. Walton. *' My dear Harding, donH 
ask me, there 's a good fellow.*' 

At this, Harding looked so much disappointed that Mary pro- 
posed to Miss Uoyd that they should go for a sail. Miss Lloyd 
acquiesced. Harding sent to Archer, but he declined the invita* 
tion. In the course of a quarter of an hour they were smoothly 
skimming along the sunny sea, with a fresh breeze fiUing the 
white sails, while Mr. Walton, being unable to continue the study 
of his part, was occupying himself in gleeful agitation, with his 
large brass telescope, watching their dazzHng course over the 
bright waters. 

With regard to the party in the boat, they all seemed to enjoy 
it excessively, if one might judge from their fresh and happy faces. 

''I wish your sister Ellen were here," sidd Mary, ** I think she 
would like this, and besides, she would perhaps sing to us." 

" That she would," said Miss Lloyd, '' and ^ough she ha» 
some alarms about the sea, I am sm-e we could none of us have 
any fear of shipwreck while Harding was with us." 

''I should confidently expect," said Mary, ''that he would 
carry us all safely on shore, by some means or other." 

** He carried you, and your father also, ashore, in his arms, did 
he not ? " said Miss Lloyd. 

'* Not exactly ashore,'* said Mary, smiling — ^she was about to 
add something, but checked herself, perhaps perceiving that 
Harding was turning aside his head, with a very discomposed 
expression. After this, Mary and Miss Lloyd chatted pleasantly 
about Wales, Mary expressing an earnest wish that Ellen Lloyd 
would very shortly join them ; but as for poor Harding, he seemed ill 
at ease, and quite unable to recover himself. He carefully avoided 
looking at Mary. The strongest men. have, their weaknesses, and 
difference of station in life does not supersede human sympathies 
so much as is generally supposed. If, however, Harding had 



THREE SONNETS TO A CHILD. 117 

received a "fai&l dart/' he. certainlj was as unconscious. of the 
depth of it, as he would haye heen hopeless of any good result. 

But what of Voltaire, and Goethe, and Thorwaldsen s hust of 
Schiller ? — ^had they prevented Archer from joining in this sailing 
excursion ? In a great measure they certainly had ; for although 
Archer was extremely displeased at Mary's humouring her father in 
Ills absurd undertaking at the theatre, he would hardly have 
allowed that to prevent his accompanying her, but for the arrival 
of all these books, which had reached him only an hour before, 
packed in three tea-chests. The bust of Schiller was to be sent 
in a few days by the carrier. 

Archer had taken out all the books, and having strewn them all 
round him upon the carpet, was very busy in collating the volumes. 
While he was thus engaged, the servant girl came in, and pre- 
sented him a little dirty bit of paper. . I^ was a baker's bill for 
-5^, 6d. Archer's hand mechanically moved towards his pocket — 
he paused abruptly, saying, ** Oh — ah, take it to your mistress." 
The girl went out, and Archer proceeded with his collation of the 
books. 

Presently the girl- came in again, with anothiBr little bit of 
paper. It was for a pound of composition candles — lid., and a 
a pint of spermaceti oil for a night-lamp — Is, 4^., total, 2«. 3d, 
** Very weU," said Archer, " take it to your mistress." 

'* My mistress says she has no change, sir." 

Archer looked up at the ceiling. " Very well," said he, "leave 
it here." 

The girl walked very slowly towards the door — ^held it half open 
in her hand for some time, — and slowly went out. Archer again 
looked up at the ceiling — ^then looked down at nothing ; biting his 
lips. Soon after this he got up and went out for a walk. 



THREE SONNETS TO A CHILD. 



I. 

Smile, Babjr ! for thy Mother home is coming, 
Again to clasp thee to her yearning heart ; 

Both Memory and Hope her way illuming 
To the calm nook wherein thou shelter'd art. 



118 THSEE SONNETS TO A CHlLD. 

Thou can'st not ni& to meet her, Bahy dear ! 

Nor hast sweet-worded welcome on thy tongtie 
But thou the music of her voice can'st hear» 

And o'er thee see her tender gazings hung : 
And little recollections, fond though dim, 

Enkindled in thy sotd through ear and eye, 
Sh^l lend thee graces of the Cherubim 

Saluted by the breath of Deity ; 
Stir all thy tiny limbs, and softly trace 
Sweet love-assurance on thy pretty face. 



II. 

Thou art thy Father's soul, I do believe, 

My golden-haired and radiant-visaged Child I 

Projected into light, and undefiled 
By the dull flesh which makes it ache and grieve 
Through this brief scene, where shadow doth deceive. 

Until by substance we are more beguiled : 

With the strange thought I have both wept and smiled— 
As one man suddenly from death-reprieve. 
0, speak to me of past and fature things ! 

Of whence thou earnest into this warm clay, 

And whither thou dost tend in its decay ! 
Almost I seem to see Cherubic wings 

Ope from about thee, for swift heavenward flight ; 

And I grow dust, in their departing light. 



III. 

O, sink not from us as a drop of dew 

From Life's fresh rose, to the obstructive sod. 
Where ear may hear thee not, nor fond eye view ; 

But our hearts strike against the sullen clod, 
For ever, till they break 1 On morning new 

Never come instant night : and dearest God 
Grant, that to thy sweet dawn of human day 

A glorious noon and placid eve be fated ! 
And that to whither goes poor dust alway. 

We may descend before thee ! O, Created 
Of divine love and joy ! do not forsake us 

In this thy bud of being ; but disclose 
The fulnesua of Life's flower, and therewith make us 

A garden of all sweets^ thou folded rose ! 

Thomas Wadr 



119 



YOUNG WATSON ; OR, THE RIOTS OF 1816. 
IN FOUR PARTS.— PART II. 



In our last paper, we traced Young Watson and his com- 
panion Thistiewood, from their perilous adventures at Highgate, 
oti the night of the 2nd of December, to the house of Hunt in 
Sast-street, Manchester-square, where they found a temporary 
shelter and repose. 

We must now make a few inquiries respecting Doctor Watson, 
who it may also be remembered was conducted by the patrole 
to Somers Town watch-house, from whence he was removed 
next day to Bow-street, and after examination before Sir N. 
Conant, was conunitted to Cold-bath-fields Prison, on the charge 
of wounding the two men, Rhodes and Golding, at Highgate. 

During the term of Doctor Watson's imprisonment, several 
persons belonging to that ** Bastille," as it was then called, pre- 
tended the greatest concern for him and f(»r his son, assuring 
him, *' That if he wished to make any communication to him, 
or to his friends, a letter should be conveyed with the greatest 
secresy and dispatch. '* They came with the professed view of 
comforting him with assurances of his son's safety and security, 
but in reality to gather such information as might lead them to 
suspect the place of his concealment. 

On these and other occasions the Doctor always assumed the 
utmost indifference, saying, <' he was perfectly satisfied respect- 
ing the fate of his son, as he knew from arrangements previously 
made, that he was safe on shipboard, and &r away from the 
reach of harm." In spite, however, of this pretended indifference, 
^e Doctor was a prey to constant anxiety, and many an hoitr he 
had fearfully speculated upon the fate of his son, of whom he had 
heard nothing since they parted at Highgate, and many a night 
with an aching heart, he had listened to the newsman's horn, 
expecting every breath to hear the sad tidings of his capture 
and destruction. 

On his re-examination at Bow-street, January 3rd, the Doctor 
complained of the unjust and horrible ofiences Isdd against him> 



120 YOUNa WATSON. 

and said, ** knowing his principles were just, and that he was 
innocent of those heinous crimes with which his name had hecn 
hranded, he should feel it a duty he owed not only to society, 
hut to his own character to hear up against his enemies.*^ A true 
hill being found against him, he was committed to Newgate to 
take his trial, charged, ''with intent to kill, iic,** Put in ^ 
irons until such time as he should be tried, the weight of his | 
fetters caused him much pain and inconvenience, and he wrote \ 
to the Lord Mayor, complaining 'Hhat he should be loaded with : 
heavy irons like a felon," and requesting a lighter pair might be 
placed upon him. This communication had the desired effect, 
and at the Lord Mayor's solicitations he was altogether relieved 
from the incumbrance. — It may not be out of place to. state 
here that Doctor Watson, after six weeks' imprisonment, was tried 
at the Old Bailey, January 22nd, on this pretended charge, and' 
acquitted, without the evidence being entered upon ; as the man 
Khodes said, the wound — ^a scratch on the thigh — might have 
been accidental, as they all fell down. Doctor Watson was 
accordingly discharged. Immediately on his acquittal being 
announced, the people in the court loudly applauded. This out- 
break was, however, instantly checked by Mr. Baron Parke, but 
on the news reaching the outside of the court, the people in the 
street shouted, and huzzaed ; when Mr. Baron Parke with some 
temper exclaimed — " This comes of " — but looking towards the 
reporters' box, checked himself, and a^ded — "never mind — I 
will not say anything." 

In the meantime the search for Young Watson spread far and 
wide. The City of London had published a reward of 250?. for 
his apprehension, while a Proclamation issued by Government, 
December 6th, was placarded in all directions, giving a description 
of his person, with the offer of a further reward of 500Z. from the 
Secretary of State's Office. The hue and cry was up, and 
woe on the devoted head of Young Watson should he be taken ; 
for there is no question he would have been hung, if only upon 
the plea of forcibly entering a dwelling-house, independently of 
high treason and shooting Mr. Piatt. Ministerial domina- 
tion was then at its height, and in this rash unthinking squabble 
of a shouting mob, saw matter fraught with danger to the king- 
dom and themselves. Every artifice, every plan was put in 
force to convince the world at large that a formidable conspiracy for 
ihe destruction of the king and the overthrow of the Goyeniment 



TO0NG WATSON. 121 

had been fomied. The committee in the Hoirse of Lords stated, 
'*i^ej had collected such evidence as leaves no doubt that ^ 
traitorous conspiracy had been formed in the metropolis, by means 
of a general insurrection to effect a general plunder and division 
of property, and to destroy all reverence for religion ! '* In the 
House of Commons it was also stated in committee, that at the 
political societies, it had been discussed — " That Parliamentary 
Reform was only a half measure,*' and *' That the landholder was 
a monster to be hunted down, and that a still greater evil was. 
the fundholder : these were the rapacious^ wretches who took 
fifteen pence out of every quartern loaf ! " It was also put forth, 
that the design of the conspiracy ''was a sudden risiug in the 
dead of night, to surprise and overpower the soldiers in their 
different barracks, which were to be set on fire, to possess them- 
selves of. the artillery, to seize and destroy the bridges, and to 
take possession of the Tower and the Bank. That drawings of 
a isachine for clearing the streets of cavalry, and also a plan of 
various important parts of the Tower have been laid before your 
committee, and that the news of that fortress being taken, was 
impatiently expected at Manchester and other places* That the 
roads were crowded during the night with a number of persons 
waiting the arrival of the mail coach, and their disappoint- 
ment was not concealed when they heard that the riot had been 
•ttppressed." 

Lord Castlereagh also stated in the House of Commons—" That 
although the conspirators had not been joined to the extent they 
had expected, yet the means tliey had provided were sufficient^ 
to enable them to make the attempt with a rational prospect of 
success," and " That it would be confining the peril within too 
narrow limits to consider it sprung from the riots of the 2nd of 
December alone. " 

Such a mighty affair had it suited the convenience of Ministers 
to create out of the absurd squabble of the 2nd of December ! 
That a treasonable conspiracy should be supposed to exist they 
were determined, and their spies were spread in all directions, to 
discover or create plots, as the case might be. " They made the 
giants first, and then, they killed them." They were in search 
of a monster, and they congratulated themselves on this happy 
discovery ! Their game was started, and their bloodhounds 
scented at the heels of Yoimg Watson : all eyes, all speculation 
was tunied oh him : the cry was up ; and. Young Watson 



122 TOUKO WATSOSr. 

taken, thej eould deal their tender mercies to all those ohnoziofss 
to themselves, or inyolved with him in the like practiees. 

The search was ceaseless and untiring. The outlets from 
London were strictly watched ; nor was the conlanent exempt 
from the rigour of pursuit. Police-officers were despatched to 
Calais, to Boulogne, and to Holland, in quest of Young Watson ; 
and every port in England, Scotland, or Ireland, had orders to be 
vigilant. Innumerable houses were searched both in town anA 
Country ; no two persons could speak together in the streets, or in 
a house of entertainment, without being watched or questioned ; 
and not a relative, friend, or acquaintance, however distant of 
tiieir object of pursuit, but was subjected to ihe lynx-eyed inspee^ 
tion of mercenary spies or Bow-street officers. 

The situation of Doctor Watson in the mean time was most dis- 
tressing. He was in ignorance of the real situation of his son, 
debarred from all communication which could afford him the sa^»^ 
faction he so much desired, and involved in like danger with him^ 
in consequence of his imprudence ; although it appears the DoctcNr 
never joined the mob, and only followed in the hopes of persuading 
his son from his violent and imprudent course, well knowing '* he* 
had to contend with an impetuosity which excited at all times con- 
siderable alarm in his mind." Apprehensive of some evil, he had 
followed to reclaim him. Thus the father, in the eye of the law, 
formed a part of the mob, and witnesses could doubtless have beea 
formed to swear to his actual presence, and encouragement of the 
rioters. Thus, had Young Watson, *' the head and front of the 
offending " been taken, he would, without question, have beea* 
placed at the same criminal bar, and been involved in the same 
doom of guilty. Young Watson's escape, as before stated, saved, 
the lives of others than himself ! 

The arrest of Doctor Watson, on the night of tho 2nd of Dee.^ 
at Highgate, was at first considered by his companions a great 
evil, and a death-blow to their hopes. It was, on the contrary^ 
the greatest good fortune that could possibly happen to them. 
Had Young Watson been seized by the patrole, instead of the 
Doctor, it would have been fatal to himself, his father, and hi» 
friends. Had Thistlewood been taken, no refuge could have b^ei^ 
found either at Hunt's, or anywhere else in London, and the father 
Aiid son would doubtless have proceeded On their journey^ to their 
final destruction. 

We will here meiition an instance or two in proof of this, and at 



the s«me time show what exertions wete used for tlie iirrest of 
tfak jojmg man. Doctor Watson had at a former period attended 
professionally a family near Lynn, of the name of King. That 
gentleman reading in the papers the aeconnts of the danger and 
pursuit of Yonng Watson, and commiserating him, on acconnt of 
youth and inexperience, obserred to a friend, that ** he would giTe 
Ima protection, if only oat of respect to his father, whom he 
thought a most amiable man." This sentence reached the eari» 
of the police. In a day or two officers came with a warrant to 
examine his pr^nises. After inspecting the house, cellars, and 
voof, imd turning OTer erery scrap of paper, they departed after ft 
very lengthened search, satisfied they were not on the right scent. 

Early in the month of January, 1817, Yickery and Lavender,, 
two Bow-street officers, arrived at Hull from London, in quest of 
a young man who had qidtted that port for Holland, under rather 
extraordinary circumstances, and, of course^ supposed to be the 
ob|eet of their search. A gentleman hearing of their route through 
that part of the eountiy, rode off instantly to Mr. Jonathan Wat- 
son, a brother of the Doctor's, a most respectable gentleman 
and farmer, at Cawthorp, in Lincolnshire ; and begged him, if his 
nephew were under his proteotloni or if he knew where he was, to 
get him out of the way, as there was no question but the officers 
would soon be on his heels. This caution, however kind, was 
unnecessary ; as Mr. Wats<m had no knowledge of his nephew's 
place of concealment. 

The officers shortly arrived: after producing their warrftnt, they 
proceeded to examine the premises, picking locks where keys were 
not readily found, turning over drawers, and throwing their con* 
tents about the floor. After inspecting the roof, closets, cellars, 
Jbc., they proceeded to the kitchen, where they were exceedingly 
minute in their investigation, looking into the oven, &o, 
. Mr. Watson's servants were put under arrest, and conducted 
before a magistrate, who questioned them very minutely as to their 
knowledge of their master's nephew, and idl his relatives and 
friends, in that part of the country, underwent the same ordealv 
ineluding the Rev. Richard Dixon, of the Rectory House, Claxby^ 
who had married a sister of Doctor Watson; 

It wiU be seen from these instances that the arrest of Doctor 
WatscHi on the outset of their intended journey, was most for^ 
tunate i as no safe asylum could possibly have been afforded to Young 
Wateon among his relations or known friends to whom he was 



134 TOUKO WATSON. 

travelling, or if sheltered bj them, his arrest must .haye been oer- 
tain. We will now return to Toung Watson, whom we left safely 
koused in East-street, Manchester-square. 

During the day, Thistlewood sent Hunt to a friend of his and 
Young Watson's, a Mr. Evans, requesting him to let Mrs* Thistle- 
wood know where he was, and to desire her to oome to him. She 
did so the same afternoon. As Hunt had no means of aeeommo- 
dating the Thistlewoods, as well as Young Watson, it was neces- 
a^ry a lod^ng should be procured for them (the Thistlewoods). 
After a day or two*s delay, apartments were taken for them in the 
house of Mr. Carr, an ornamental painter, in Tottenham Court- 
road, and it was arranged they were to go to their new abode at 
nightfall. 

Four days had passed in the interim, and on the 6th, as previ- 
ously stated, the hue and cry was up, and the walls were placarded 
with offers of reward for the arrest of Young Watson. The news- 
men were makmg a great noise in the streets, when Thistlewood 
sent for a paper, and read aloud the various sums offered for Young 
Watson* s apprehension. Hunt s wife seemed much struck by the 
amount of the reward offered, and made use of some expression, as 
to " what people might be tempted to do for money.*' She pro- 
bably had no meaning in this, but it caused them great uneasiness 
and- alarm, and as soon as she had left the room, Mrs. Thistlewood 
insisted on Young Watson's instant removal to the lodging intended 
for herself and husband. This generous act — for be it remem- 
bered Thistlewood was himself in great danger — ^was immediately 
put in practice. They accordingly muffled Young Watson up as 
well as they could, and he left the house unnoticed by Mrs. Hunt, 
who was much surprised on her return at finding he had departed. 
He was conducted by Mr. Evans to Tottenham Court-road, and 
introduced to Mr. Carr, who received him as a son and friend. It 
is not our intention to trace Thistlewood through his concealments. 
Suffice it to say, he and his wife remained in Hunt's house for a 
few days, and then removed to the house of a friend in the neigh- 
bourhood of the Strand. Upon the proclamation being issued 
offering a reward for the apprehension of Thistlewood, his friend 
thought it no longer prudent to let him remain ; he accordingly 
went back to Hunt's house for a few days longer. A lodging was 
then taken for him in the house of a stranger, in Woodstock- 
street, Manchester-square. .Here he remained under the name of 
Thompson, until such time as he afterwards proposed leaving the 



TOUKO WATSOK. 125 

country for America. With his after doings this narrative has 
little or no connexion. 

' We will now renew oar inquiries after Toung Watson, whom 
we left at the house of Mr. Carr, in Tottenham Court Road. He 
was provided with an apartment in front of the house, from which 
he had a foil opportunity of observing all that passed, and of 
being an eye-witness of the activity used by the police for his 
arrest. Aa anxious spectator of their zealous but fruitless exer* 
tions, he watched their movements, and many a time has he 
peeped through a loop-hole, and seen the officers on the opposite 
side of the way surveying every person who passed — young or 
<dd, tall or short, lusty or thin : any one who wore a coat of the 
colour described, or had a mole on his face, as explained in the 
proclamation, were objects of most jealous scrutiny. 

One circumstance caused him much amusement, although placed 
in such a trying position. A young man, in a brown great-coat; 
was eyed most attentively by an officer,' who stared him full in th^ 
face as he passed along, then turned round and looked after him. 
jNot satisfied with this inspection, he ran, and overtook him, and 
stared in his face again. This second survey «eemed to satisfy 
him, and he returned to his post opposite Carr's house, once more 
to watch, and lay in wait for the so much desired ** young man in 
a brown great-coat.*' 

. Not many days dapsed before Mr. Carr's house seemed literacy 
beset with police officers ; prying about, gazing in at the windows, 
or inspecting any person who might enter, or pass from the house. 
Persons called under various pretences, of looking at the apart- 
ments, (which were stated to be let,) who made particular inquiries 
as to the number of lodgers, rooms, closets, &c., in a way so fry- 
ing and inquisitive, as to leave no doubt as to what their purpose 
was, namely, the discovery of Young Watson, of whom they evi- 
dently had obtained some clue. 

One man came with the professed object of having a board 
painted with a device for some charitable institution. During the 
progress of its painting, he called several times with two or three 
persons of like stamp, who, while he was giving du*ections 
about the execution of the design, busied themselves by prying 
about the place, asking questions, &c. One thing is not a little 
strange, the board when finished, was never called for — a sufficient 
evidence as to the real object of their visit. 

Among others who came to make anxioua inquiries about the 



126 jomfa watmhc 

*' poor yaiing man/' wm a Mr« PembertoD. Mr. Oair had kiti»w& 
him manj years, but always entertained a great diJiUke io htm, 
jmd to his principles. Upon tb^se oceanons, this man always in- 
troduced the subject of Young Watson, at ike same time affecting 
Qot to have the least wish or desire to be ioformed of anything 
connected with him. At other times he pretended to know erery- 
diing. This assumed knowledge he no doubt eoneeived wodd 
draw forth some word osr hint he could turn to his account, but 
fortunately for the subject of th^ie papers, he never suoceeded ia 
his intentions. 

It Js presumed that Mr. Evans in his anxiety fin* Toung 
Watson's safety, had probably let fall to this man some nngnarded 
^expressions with respect to Mr. Carr. To his house therefore be 
constantly went, hoping to draw forth some infoTnation, by half 
words, or oth^wise, that might lead to some clue as to the where- 
abouts of Young Watson. Fortunately for Young Wats<m his 
artifices fell short of their object* 

It is not a little mngular, that this man, to whom Tfatstlewoed 
attributed his betrayal, and we believe f rem unquestionable proc^--^ 
thi^ very Pembeiton, (who before Thistlewood's arrest was a poor 
man,) on his way heme from the bank, whither he had been to 
receive his dividends, fell down dead in one of the streets leading 
to the river, with the money in his pocket ! How obtained, we 
leave our readers to guess. His constant visits to the Secretary of 
State s office may peerfaaps t&mA some exj^aoalbn. 

Mr. Carr's bouse was built pajily over a gateway ; and that por* 
tion of it immediately over it was divided from the house, alw^ya 
being let off s^arately as a worki^p, or for vmious olher psuv 
poaes. From diis room there was no commnnicatioa wfaiMsewer 
with the house, and the only access to it was by me«is of a ladder 
placed undemeadi, and so up a trap-door, widak when €ke romn 
was untenanted, was kept padlocked, and the ladder removed^ 
Such was the case in the present instance, the place not bdng 
in use* 

One night Mr« Can* was awakened by a rambling, ahuiffliog 
noise, ^ooeeding from this uaocei^ied room, and at the same 
time his Buspieions were aroused as to the eause. Your^ Watson 
slept in a room immediately over this workshop, but knowing theie 
was no communication from it to the house, he remained content 
as to the present safety c^ his charge, and waited with some 
anxietj for daylight to make his observations. 



TOUXO WATSOIf. 127 

Eurly in ike mprnini^ he went out to feDOBnokre» wlien he diA- 
coTered th^t the fii^h of Uie window helonging to the room had 
been poshed badc^ which had before been always kept closed! 
The biplding on the oth^ Bide the gateway, and joining the room 
we have spoken of, was a public house, and it was supposed that 
some person must have cUmbed along the iron railing or balcony 
in &ont of the public house, and so into the room, but finding no 
communication from it to the house, no doubt returned much 
idisappointed at the failure of the scheme. 

Mr. Carr's situation had now become to the last degree alarming. 
He consequently weat to Mr. Bvans, requesting him instantly to 
cemove his friend to some other and more secure place, as it was 
^^rident his house was suspected^ Mr. Svai^ was in great trouble 
«t this niews, as he was utt^ly at a loss in what quarter to seek 
the necessary shelter, as a laa'ge reward was not only o&red for 
Yeung Watson's arrest, but £f500 was also hdd out for the appre- 
hension of any 4»ie eosicealing him. Difficulties beset them on aU 
skies. Oarr's house was strictly watched, and would no doubt be 
searched, and hpw or whenB to find a refuge for the young man 
4liey kiiew not, as all their friends we^ more or less connected 
with ihe political agitatiims of the day, and consequently objects 
of su^icjon. . Then again, who would receiye him at the risk of 
their own Eves ? — ^for any one hajrbouring him would unquestion- 
ably have been .niealt with at the utmost rigour ci the law. This 
was indeed a trying position, and their solicitude for the preser- 
Tation of his life was put to a severe trial. 

This took place on the 16th ef Bee^nber, and Young W<ats<^ 
had b^^d dieltared by Mr. Can* from the 6th. The next day he 
^vaks remoTod to an asylum as unlooked for as the particulars of 
its b^ng fouiid are singulsi' in detail. 

A person named Moggridge — a tailor ree»ding in Som^s Town 
— had been for many y^ears in the habit of making such clothing 
as Mr. HoU (mentioned i^ the earlier pmtion of this aarratiye) or 
kis £amily required. Some delay having taken place in the send- 
ing home some requisite apparel, Mrs. Holl, <m her way to town, 
called on Moggridge, requesting the clothes iiight be forwarded. 
Jkit^ leaving the m^sage with his wife, (Moggridge was out») 
^hair conyeraation turned upon the all-engrossing subject of Young 
Watsosi. Mi!s. Holl expressed much concern for his unhappy 
«i^uatioi]< al^ioiH^h regrettmg the violence that had led to it, and, 
woman-lUce^ dwdt npcm the painful anxiety and distress of hi? 



128 TOUirO WATSON. 

parents, under such trying circnmstanees. His youth aftd mis- 
fortune claimed her sympathy, and she lamented that so young, a 
man as Watson was stated to he, should he hunted from place to 
place, like a wild heast, with the whole country as it were in arms 
against him, and a price set upon his head. 

After indulging in such expressions of compassion as her sym- 
pathy suggested, she exclaimed, ''Ah, poor young man, if he 
were at our house, he would he safe enough ! " little dreaming 
these yery words would so soon place herself and feimily in bo 
trying a position. After some further conyersation on the same 
suhject, she left, and pursued her way to the City. 

Moggridge during his ahsence from home, had, it appeared by 
the merest chance, (for he had not seen that person aboye three 
times in the space of seyen years), called on Mr. Eyans, the 
before-named friend of Young Watson. 

The sight of Mog^dge csJled forth from Mr. Eyans an excla- 
mation of joy, and he cried, " By heayen, Moggridge, you are the 
yery man we want." He then explained to him the critical 
position of Young Watson, and wished to know if he would giye 
him shelter and protection, as he was in great jeopardy in his 
present abode. Moggridge howeyer declined giying the required 
asylum, for many reasons, but said he would make inquiries, and 
let Mr. Eyans know in the eyening. 

On Moggridge 's return home he mentioned to his wife what 
had passed, and at the same time entered into consultation witii 
her as to whom they could apply for the necessary protection. 
They found great difficulty in tins, as also in the selection of one 
whom they could confide so important a secret to, as the search for 
Young Watson was untiring, and officers, or spies, were placed 
at the comer of almost eyery street. The large reward too 
offered for his apprehension, as likewise for his concealer — ^ren- 
dered the task of sheltering him a matter of no small difficulty^ 
as it inyolyed such imminent danger to the person protecting him. 
Whilst deliberating as to whom they could place confidence in» 
or of anyone who would incur so great a peril, Moggridge 's wife 
told her husband tbat Mrs. HoU had called about one of her son's 
clothes not haying been sent home, at the same time repeated the 
words she had uttered to the effect that if "he were in her house 
he would be safe enough.'' Moggridge no sooner heiu*d these 
words than he immediately resolyed to go to Mr. Holl (who on 
account of his absence from all political . agitation^ had ney^ 



TOUHG WATSON. 129 

crossed bis mind), and proposed to him the shelter of this unhappy 
yovaig man. 

Without delay he made his way to Bayham Street, Camden 
Town, then almost surrounded by fields, where Mr. Holl resided, 
And after some little preface, he explained the unhappy situation 
of Young Watson, and asked Mr. Holl if he would give him the 
shelter and protection he stood so much in need of. 

This request was not a little startling, as Mr. Holl had no 
knowledge of any of the parties mentioned in this narrative, and 
had only heard their names as given through the medium of the 
daily prints ; and more than all, he deprecated the violence which 
had led to such unhappy results. The preservation of a fellow- 
xjreature was however asked at his hands, and, spite of the dangeib 
which might beset him, he at once consented to receive Young 
Watson under his roof. 

It is not our intention to dwell too largely upon the merits 
of this act, or* of the imprudence which hazarded, by devo- 
tion for a stranger's good, the welfare of wife and children. 
Suffice it, the promise was given, and though the prudent may 
condemn, the generous must uphold so strong an instance of high 
feeUng and humanity — for be it understood Mr. Holl took no part 
whatever in the political agitation of the day; He looked upon 
this young man as a rash enthusiast, whose folly might deserve 
a whipping, but whose indiscretion hardly deserved so black a 
sentence as that the law held out. Life was at stake, and he at 
once put all selfish, perhaps prudent, considerations out of his 
mind, and was governed only by the dictates of his heart. His 
word was pledged, and he never broke it. 

' Mrs. Holl had not yet returned — no time was to be lost, and 
her husband had too much confidence in her good faith and 
approval of an act of humanity to wait her sanction. Permitting 
neither difficulties nor danger to influence his better feelings, 
he proposed they should go immediately to Mr. Evans and 
conclude their arrangements at once. Accompanied by Mog- 
gridge, be proceeded to Newcastle Street, Strand, where Mr. 
Evans resided. Not wishing to be seen, Mr. Holl waited in 
Stanh<^e Street, while Moggridge went to the house. After 
some twenty minutes' delay, he returned, accompanied by Mr. 
Evans, whom he introduced to Mr. Holl ; few words were ex- 
changed ; but in that brief discourse it was arranged that Young 
Watson should be removed to his new abode the following evening, 

NO. XXXII. — ^YOL. VI. K 



130 YOUNG WATSON. 

Mr. Erans upon this proceeded to Garr's house in Tottei^rain 
Court Road, and informed him of the shelter proposed for him. 
This was gratefully accepted, and the friends mutuailj congratulated 
each other on so happy an escape from present danger and 
difficulty, and trusted, that as Mr. HoU, who was an entire 
stranger to them, was not politically known, that Tomng 
Watson under his roof might find a safe and happy refuge 60B1 
the increasing difficulties of his position. 

The next erening Moggridge by appointment again went to 
Mr. Evans, and was conducted hy him to Mr. Oarr's house. Here 
for the first time he saw Young Watson and Thistlewood. Tfai» 
was between eight and nine o'clock on the 17th of December*. 
After taking an affectionate leave of his friends, and of his gene* 
rous preserver, Carr, and being disguised in the best way. Young 
Watson left the house in company with Evans and Moggridge 
for Mr. HoU's house at Camden Town. 

Another instance of the good fortune which seemed to attend 
this young man's steps, and increase die number of his escapes^ 
is evidenced by the following. Some hours previous to his removal^ 
a Mr. Mackenzie, and a Mr. Perring, called upon Mr. Carr, wh^re 
they remained in conversation until within a short time prior to 
Young Watson's d^arture, although without the slightest know- 
ledge of his being in the house. It will be remembered that 
Carr's house was strictly watched, and every person passing to 
and frOj was an object at once of suspicion and regard. Mr. 
Mackenzie was the first to depart, and as it appears, was followed 
by the scouts stationed on the outside, to his own house in the 
neighbourhood of the New Road, Paddiugton. It is also supposed 
that after watching Mr. Mackenzie home, they must have returned 
to their post, and on Mr. Perring^s leaving some time after, foU 
lowed him to his residence in Chelsea. It is not a little strange 
that Mr. Mackenzie's and Perring^s houses were searched the 
next da}' ! During the absence of these scouts, as though they 
had purposely quitted their posts, Young Watson left the hoiose* 
and was conducted to Bayham Street, Camden Town, where he 
was received with the greatest kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Holl. 

All trace of him was now completely lost ; and such was the 
secresy observed upon the occasion, that even his preserver, Carr» 
never knew, nor wished to kncm where Young Watson was con* 
ducted ; and it was expressly understood, under the most solemn, 
assm^nces, that neither Moggridge, nor Mr. Evans, Bhould 



AN INFIBMAttT FUNERAL. 131 

mention his new abode, or the name of his protector ! The 
chain of commmiication was now broken. The bird had taken 
wing, and the sharp eyes of the police failed to mark his coming 
down ! Every art, every possible plan had been contrived 
to ensnare him> and now, when ^hnost within their net, he again 
escaped. 

He arrived at Mr. HoU's at half-past nine on the night of the 
17th of December, 1816, where he remained until the 5th of 
March, 1817. Another extraordinary instance of Yomig Watson's 
good fortune must here be mentioned — Mr. Oarr's house was 
searched onlj two days tvft^ Watsw's removal 

H. Hou. 



■ 1 ■■ 



AN INFIRMAEY FUNERAL.— THE MORTAL AND 

THE IMMORTAL. 



A hibsltng's eve 
Unloviikgly had watched her :— <iio one grieved 
When the poor, suftsring, lonely one had heaved 

Her last, sad sigh. 

A rusty pall 
Scarce hid her coffin from the public sight, 
With its broad, crumpled fold of tand^ed white ; 

And that was all I 

No mourner near ; 
Bearers in work-soiled clothes, with careless tread, 
Httrried the cold one to her silent bed, 

Without a tear. 

Earth mourns her not, 
And mingles with its dust her mouldering clay. : 
Her sjurit widens to immortal day — 

And heeds it not. 

No sighs abore ! 
Lifejrindles every sense and power to joy ; 
With angels, praise will be her glad employ, 

For God is love I M. a 



k2 



132 



CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS : 

BEING 

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE WHITTINGTON FUND. 



No. II.— THE GUESTS. 

What was said a month ago, with regard to the House of the 
Cheap Cluh, touched matters of finance and fancy. — What I am 
ahout to offer with regard to the guests who may assemble therein, 
is an affair of greater consequence — ^inasmuch as it is a question of 
feelings and not furniture. 

The present happens to be, whimsically enough, the moment of 
moments, when Election arrangements are the topic. But the 
Popular Representatiye, and the cooperator in our scheme of 
comfort and enlightened pleasure, stand on a totally different 
basis : must be chosen on diametrically opposite groimds. The 
man who is to speak for us, must be Whig, if we are Whig : — Tory, 
if we are Tory : — Stanrationist, if we, too, desire our neighbours' 
famine : — and Puseyite, if, loving Romanism, we have still not 
courage to show our adherence thereunto manfully. The man who 
is to live with us, need be none of these things : unless we intend 
to assert our own Pedantry, or Bigotry, as final. Earnestness and 
intolerance, however, frequently forced into harness together, are 
not inevitably yoke-fellows. "Live and let live," cannot mean 
" Live and make live "! save with a class of persons as much out 
of place in a popular assembly, as the Grand Inquisitor, or the 
Head of the Jesuits, woidd be in the pulpit of genial, familiar 
Rowland Hill's Chapel. 

Let me then, hope, that there is one utensil which will rarely 
be seen within the ** borders " of the Whittington Club, however 
sanctioned by West-End usage — I mean, a Black Ball. To explain, 
however ; — A candidate of known quarrelsome habits, (though, even 
in this, let every one beware of giving scope to the Scandal- 
monger !) or whose fixed idea of "going to bed mellow,*' as the 
song, says, makes him apt to run against more staid and sober 
citizens, Malay fashion: — must, of course, be spared such oppor- 
tunities of disturbance as our large and peaceable party could 



CLUB-CBOTGHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 133 

furnish. But easte-distinctions, political variances — above all, 
personal antipathies — can have no such place with us, as they 
occupy in grander establishments. The vulgarity of Exclusiveness, 
the pinchbeck trumpery of a King BrummeFs crown and sceptre, 
were, assuredly, too abundantly and flagrantly exhibited, some 
twenty-five years since, — ^to appear, again, under a healthier dis- 
pensation. Circumstances have, unhappily, given the writer a 
more than ordinary opportunity of studying the ijuischief wrought 
by this intolerable spirit in the Middle Classes. — I struggled up 
into life, in a society, the agonising principle of which was to show 
gentility by " snubbing one's neighbours *' — where it was a duty 
for Church to call Chapel '* low ** — and a canon of Dissent for 
Chapel to sneer at Church as ** dark,*' Everybody would be at 
** the top of the tree *' j and " everybody would meet nobody, who 
was not in their set " — Heaven save the mark ! — So we had all 
the silver-fork-ww of the school of Theodore Hook's patrons (he 
being an exponent, not an originator) second-hand : or, to put it 
familiarly, got up in " German silver*'! The best and brightest 
spirits sate in corners : — or their owners were stripped to the bone by 
malicious tongues, if they dared to show their faces and ** speak 
up " without license in strange places. I have seen a beautiful, 
elegant, young girl, left without a partner at a ball for a whole 
evening, because she lived in a tabooed street. I have watched 
the cordiality, and ease, of a very small gathering entirely disturbed, 
by Blarney fashion, and Skeggs airs : — those who thought them- 
selves ** on the dais," or " above the salt," insisting upon proving 
their rank by audible personal remarks, — ^yclept quizzing — of the 
interlopers. And, in a circle, where, at best, there was not too 
much wit or wisdom, not too much learning to spare, nor too much 
thought to circulate, it was more melancholy, even, than curious, 
to watch grown people, as it were, tying their own hands ; muz- 
zling their own mouths ; barricading themselves in prisons, — and 
voluntarily abandoning half their revenues, — and out of reciprocal 
fear, and folly, and contempt, sacrificing liberty, and pleasure, 
and privilege t with the assurance, moreover, of utterly failing 
in the object they sought for. What was their choicest ex- 
clusiveness, but a thing to be mocked by all real Exclusives 
deserving the name? — And these, again, have their Council of 
Ten — their Conclave of Three — their one Dalai-Lama : — so that, 
in fact, it follows, mathematically, that the rights of Finery are 
Hghtfully vested in one single person. 



134 CLUB-OBOTCHBTS AHD CHSAP COHFOBIS. 

Needs it, then, to lay streai on Unirersafity as a principle io be 
worked oat to the utt^most in a Cheap Club f — to iBsist that there 
should be no disalnlities for membership ; saye notmouely bad 
manners ? — One would think not : — and yet exist eertain ele- 
ments that seem at yarianee with the principle of assoeiationy 
in Independence, as tmderstood by the generality: — ^which has beea 
shrewdly defined, to mean* " Eyery one's agreement with «y owm 
Nonconformity.'* I say, ** seem " adyisedly ; because, whea 
the last, and deepest meaning of the word — when the hemri of 
the yirtue — is reached: the widest liberty and toleration will 
be enjoyed ; and owned to include the most refined care and 
considerateness of one man for another. For l^en it will be per- 
ceiyed that Selfishness is the worst of thraldoms ; — ^that indiyidual 
humours may constrain and encumber the free operations of human 
loye and enterprise yery nearly as strongly as the ordinances of 
Autocrat Fashion. Comfort for the Many will be found mathema- 
tically and morally to preclude a Benjamin's mess for the One. 
There will be a strict watch kept oyer all preferences oi Chwek 
aboye Cbapel, of Whig before Tory, — oyer all demarcations of 
Trade and Profession. We shall neyer dwindle to the tone of 
** High Life below Stairs." While we discountoiance the temper 
which makes a man ayerse to be claimed by his calling — ^we shall 
rate one another, and ourselyes (let it be hoped), by gifts and 
graces, with which sect and party, occupation and business, haye 
nothing to do. B., who keeps a set of books, will not btte his 
thumb, at C, who folds his linens : nor at D., who unrolls bales of 
carpeting. £., who has to clear himself of the grime of an iron- 
mongery warehouse, will not be critical on "the dyer's hand " of 
F. Whenever the arising of the censorious spirit is detected (and 
I dwell upon the possibility from knowing the foible to be intimately 
connected with The Englishman's honourable desire to better his 
<Kmdition), let all whom it concerns take warning and physic to 
his pride, by recollecting what befel the CoUegian in the Edinburgh 
Mail. 

The story ran thus — Orford (to ticket a man with a name not 
his own) was one of the highest and driest fine gentlemen eyer 
encountered : a being whose one idea in life was his own select- 
ness, and the bounden duty of impressing the same on the worid, 
in season and out of season.. Persons of his turn sometimes 
encounter odd replies, no less than odd adventures. It was 
Orford who, staying in a country hous^ came down to lureakfast 



C|iVB*GB0TGHEI9 ANp CHJ5AP COMFORTS. 135 

<m a New Year's monung, ia clean kid gbyes, an^d with " clean 
kid " speeches. There was, however, only one victim for these, 
in the parlour, when the Collegian entered it : — a great, shy, 
country girl, with rose (or raw) red cheeks and elbows. No 
matter. Orford adyanced, with his usual pattern step — and "Will 
jou allow me. Madam, to present yqu with the compliments of the 
season?" 

The young Lady answered "YES," What next could the 
Orford of Oifords say ? 

Well ; our modem Euphuist had, '* once upon a time,** to 
iravdl per coach from London to Edinburgh : a proceeding of two 
4ays and as many nights, in which — especially, when the journey 
was a winter one, good or h&d company went for something. One 
'60 ckoiee, then, as Orford, could not but felicitate himself on find- 
tag the only other occupant of the vehicle besides himself, to be a 
gentteman of lus own age : — well-mannered ; well-looking ; well- 
4reesed : neither anxious nor averse to make acquaintance ; 
oeither oppressively learned, nor meagrely commonplace, in his 
discourse. Ere they had got to York, the two were agreed on 
Church and State — by the time they had reached Berwick, they 
were of " one accord *' with regard to all matters pertaining to 
BMajs, and Fashion ; and Auld Reekie received — ^for aught there 
was to inspire misgivings — a Pylades and Orestes. Up to this 
point, however, these kindred spirits had been too perfectly bred 
so much as to hint at any curiosity with regard to each other's 
nanobes and stations. .But ere they parted, that they might secure 
the pleasure of meeting again — good breeding must need give 
vay, that Reciprocity (to use the words of the Milkman when 
persecuted by the laundry maid) might succeed. Pylades spoke 
first ; tendered the unexceptionable card which announced him as 
Orford Blondeville Orford — of such or such a College, Oxford. 
The Orestes was a trifle backward in putting in his rejoinder : — 
hong back, it. seemed, ere he finally committed himself. Thus ran 
Jiis style and title : 

P. 0. KIEJ^Y, 

(No e(«nexion with any other Pretenders.) 

Disagreeable- Smell JDisperser. 

No Cure, no Pay ! ! 

So much for the clear-sightedness of Exclusivism ! — So much for 
^ thecay of ** the cart horse breed " peeping out, by which tho' 



136 CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COHFORIS. 

weak, the conBcioiislj incomplete and ill-mannered trj to excuse 
their own poor-spiritedness and suspicion of those '* who have not 
been introduced/' — It may be said, that I have wasted time in 
fighting a Windmill : that such a wretched and objectionable 
inanity can never be contemplated, or allowed to exist for a 
passing instant, in a popular assembly. I believe that it will not 
readily get an ascendancy there ; but it may " sit in the gate '*" 
for all that, and interfere with the entrance and welcome of True 
People, more than those are aware, who have not watched it — ^^ 
and themselves — ^very scrupulously. Where, indeed, there is no 
sternly prohibitory feudal arrangement of ranks — ^which admits^ 
of familiar condescension within limits decided by the Party 
whose will is to arbitrate— there will always be, more or less, 
heavings, struggles, twinges : some, under pretext of instibcts 
of refinement — some, under the Moralist's cloak of prudent and 
defensible uniformity among those with whom we are to consort. 
Time was (not so very long ago) when the Man of Genius 
was petted, paraded, exhibited, and left to perish, as one, who 
because of his genius, must be a parvenu, not a gentleman. 
There are Cathedral towns, at this moment, where the Banker is 
not rated as fit company for the Curate. I travelled once half 
a day along a foreign railway, with two English livery servants, 
who disconsolate as they were, from thdr utter ignorance of 
the usages of barbarous " foreign parts " would not unbend 
for mutual support in self-complacency : — because no one <* had 
named " My Lord's man to The Duke's I Can one accmnulate 
instance upon instance, ridicule upon ridicule, too emphatically — 
by way of "doing to death " such inhuman follies as these — by 
way of illustrating the intense vulgarity of spirit which keeps 
them alive ? Can one ask too loudly that in a Popular Club there 
should be no exclusiveness, so strong as that which each man 
shall for himself, provide against, envy, hatred, uncharitableness ; 
— against that censorious resolution to he fine which assumes the- 
coarseness of all others who are found witibout the pale raised by 
each man's own personality ? 

There is another leading article in our Club's constitution, 
which, as disconnected from established notions of things in their 
proper place, claims a few words of observation. I mean the 
admission of female members (not to use the Abigail's word 
** LcKiies,'*) This original scheme is not to be carried into effect 
without suspicion on the part of the diiSculty-makers, and scorns 



CLUB CROTCHETS AKD CHEAP COMFORTS. 137 

from those whose idea of helping the World is hj sneering at: 
every attempt to better it. 

. Doubtless, to all such as for good or bad reasons, desire to 
render Women helpless, — ^it seems a startling proposition, that 
their comfort and independence should be provided for. It is 
impossible, thej will aver, for such provision to be carried into- 
effect, without a sad and complete surrender of all that a Club 
was framed to bring about — Man's indulgence, at an easy rate ! 
Yet Women travel alone — ^walk alone, without harm occurring to 
those who will not be harmed ; and without the luxury of railway 
transit being thereby destroyed to Commercial Travellers, or the 
liberty of the pavement to the street Lounger ! I should have 
spoken, ^r^, of the modesty and delicacy of ** the sex," were I 
not satisfied that that, however loudly prated about, is a secondary 
consideration with those I am now meeting. Except a Club is to 
mean a place set apart for Man's indulgence in Bad Manners, (with 
regard to which I have somewhat to say under its proper head), 
the only difficulty in the arrangement . is its strangeness. If a 
solitary gentlewoman can eat her dinner at Yerrey's, without 
either waiters, cooks, or company, being distracted by the spec- 
tacle merely because it is one of perpetual occurrence — without 
her receiving " an idea " (as the Irish have it) of an offer of mar- 
riage— or, what is more to the purpose, I presume, without her 
tendering one, be there ever so many doublets and hose in com- 
pany,— why the same miracle cannot be performed in a selected 
assemblage of constant members, ''warranted harmless," is an 
enigma which would puzzle The Sphinx ; or the founder of the 
Sphinx, Mr. Buckingham ! Why, again, said gentlewoman 
should not enjoy her periodical (supposing her not to be the 
strong-minded Woman who 

" her faith in old Jeremy puts," 

and desires to study the past night's debates) in her quiet comer 
of the Library, as innocuously to herself and others, as when she 
takes her share of Macready's Lear, or Mrs. Nesbitt's Constance, 
from box, pit, or balcony, — is a matter not to be proved without a 
nicety of distinction, for which, it might be hoped, our members 
have no time — let alone taste. Meanwhile the prohibitive side of 
the question is stated oracularly — the difficulty propounded to be 
insurmountable, again and again, just as if there were no parallels 
or precedences — just as if, fot every score of Lady members, one 



138 CLUB^CBOTCHSTS AlfD CHEAP COMTOBTS. 

sorrogate, or clergyman,, must be dbcted : to aaj nothing of a 
standing Counsel, well up in the immortal case of *^ Bardell f^. 
Pickwick." When«euch complaints and misgivings are gravely 
stated, I am irresistibly reminded of a whimsical scene described 
by an old friend : who has the mi^ortune oi being the Great Lady 
of a plantation in Guiana, and is wearing out hope» energy, and 
genius, in trying, under impossible conditions, to civilise her hus- 
band's negroes : her life, being, peradventure» the saddest slavery 
of all ! On some birthday, or anniversary, the holiday was to be 

kept by a great dinner at the cost of Mrs. • This meaat, 

by no means permisaon to turn the Black Cattle loose to forage for 
themselves, but the ordering ai their bill of fare by the mistress—- 
the arrangement of the tables — and, during the morning, some 
personal superintendence of the pots and pans: since the Ariadnes 
and Phillises were apt to turn lazy and '* let things bum ** if 
''Missis" ceased to overlook them. — Well: the broiling, and 
boiling, and frying, and stewing on the most liberal scale, was sA 
last, happily, got through. The repast was dished — in a more 
satii^actory manner than the New- Yearns dinner of Mrs. Wiggina, 

immortalised by Hood, — ^and the Lady of retired to her 

bower, with a book : happy to be rid of her housewifery. Scarcely 
had the poor gentlewoman sate for three minutes in peace, ere her 
retreat was assailed by a squall from Ariadi^ and Phillis — -joined 
by a whimpering chorus from Andromache, SapphOy NausuxM, and 
Heaven knows how many more ebon Graces and Goddesses ! — 

** Well, what now ? '' said the weary Proprietress, laying aside 
her book with a sigh. 

It appeared that the gentlemen would not allow the plainti& to 
sit down at taUe with them — " It was not '* — they insisted — " a 
Lady* s party r* 

To be serious : — That Women of small fortunes should not be 
permitted, on easy terms, to enjoy such daily comfort as a Club can 
furnish, is a class-prohibition only to be maintained on a princi]^ 
of Despotism or Pruriency (as may be), which will not bear exar 
mination and claims final settlement. There was a time when the 
English public admitted into a flower-gard^i, was assumed to be 
Yeritably and indeed, a Bull in a China Shop. Yet look at the 
roses and the carnations, and the rare flowers and shrubs, which 
it would puzsle any 4Mie less learned than a Fortune to name, now 
blooming in St. James's Park! There was a time when Conaerra* 
iism would have emptied its vial of vitriol on the folly of the 



CLUB-CROTCHETS iJffD CHRAF COMFOBTS. 139 

Beaisdaoftis aad the ABgersteins, wko entruated Claudes* and Bel 
Fiombos, and Titians to the keeping of the general public. Y^ 
ipviiai has befallen oor national pictures, save from one crazy g49^ 
tfomoM ? It is not enough, to suffer no rules of exelusion to preyail : 
nrkfttever they be, whether friuaed according to the cant of Chiyalry, 
or the cant of sdlfish Indulgence — the spirit must be rooted ouA : 
on eyeary ground of generosity — of justice and of precedence. It 
must not be a ease of excuse : concession : or expediency : but of 
simple rights, — simply administered. Thus treated, the mixture 
of sexes in a Club will cause little more disturbance than in a church 
or a market. Folly will force itself in everywhere — neither St. 
Senanus nor St. Kevin could keep clear of ** bother," as Mr. Moore 
will tell you, for all their misogynism prepense — ^but no where will 
Folly so resolutely force itself in, as where Exclusion reigns without 
reason ! 

And now, after the above sober sense (of the common-place 
aspect whereof, one might be ashamed, did one not know that the 
highest truths and the sublimest poetry are common-place), I will 
deliver mys^f of a crotchet in parting : ere, from Guests, I proceed 
to their Entertainment. Of course in a cheap Chib, there can be 
no Honorary Members : indeed, it is a curious fact^ that the persons 
thus designated, for the most part, belong to the class best able to 
pay for its pleasures. But can there be no provision for strangers 
and casual residents ? Should there not be a welcome for such ? 
Should not the American, who, like energetic Mr. Bayard Taylor, 
crosses the Atlantic, to satiate his honourable curiosity with regard 
to the Old World, by taking ** Views Afoot," — like the scatterer 
of olive-leaves, Elihu Burritt, or the true-hearted Frederick 
Douglass, be not so much permitted, as courted to make our 
House his home too ? — to say nothing of the volatile and prag- 
matical Frenchman, who knew everything about London (! !) before 
he had quitted the Cafis of the Boulevards, better than after he 
ruefuUy made acquaintance with Uie eating-houses of Drury Lane ? 
— to say nothing of the dear patient, plodding German, with his 
large appetite, and his huge curiosity, and his tiresome demands on 
our sympathy, and his perpetual study of the small number of 
shillings included in a given sovereign ? — I should like to be sure 
that some measure such as could include tourists like these was 
considered by those having club direction and influence — that not 
only the Lions, who may make a feature at a soiree, and furnish 
forth matter for compliment in a speech after dinner, or a line in the 



140 THE PILGRIM. 

Eeport — but the less noted, not to saj more obscure stranger, sbould 
be encouraged to sit by our fires, and ** taste our ale : " — ^to gather 
wisdom (not wind) from our journals, and experience (not prejudice) 
from daily intercourse with us. That we should gain a pretty 
handsome per centage of enlightenment and economic experience 
(to say nothing of higher and better profits, never to be lost sights 
of,) from such an intermixture, is not the worst reason for its 
advocacy, among all the followers of Whittington, whose motto is, 
** How best to prosper '* ! 



THE PILGRIM. 

BY VRS. ACTON TINDAL. 



When thou art young and life is fresh and gay, 
And thine eye glistens, and thy heart beats high ; 

No fears to check, no tears to wipe away, 
No retrospect to sadden with a sigh : 

Strong in thy youth and happiness, beware ! 

Pilgrims and sojourners thy fathers were. 

When in prosperity and all seems bright, 
And the desire of weary years obtamed ; 

When glad Hope makes the future dance in light, 
And all forgotten in the past that pained — 

Bear thy joys meekly ! the dark days are nigh ; 

Pilgrim ! the smile is brother to the sigh ! 

When youth is parted, and its hopes and joys 
Like last even's garland all lie wan and torn. 

Or cast aside like wayward childhood's toys, 
While the lorn spirit steals apart to mourn ; 

Let this thought whisper courage to thy breast, 

Thou art a Pilgrim passing to thy rest ! 

If thou haye loved " not wisely but too well," 
If Fate have severed, or harsh words estranged. 

If in thine ear shall ring the last farewell. 
And the whole face of earth to thee be changed. 

Chain down the tempest in thy yearning heartj 

Ask not for love a Pilgrim as Uiou art ! 



LITTLE GENTLEFOLKS. 141 

Listless and weary, when thon art among 
Scenes that have long since lost all charm for thee ; 

Dull 'mid the revel, lonely 'mid the throng, 
With memorjf and sad thoughts for company; 

Lock in thine heart thy sorrow, and pass by : 

A Pilgrim hath few claims to sympathy! 

Love nothing much — thou can'st not keep it long ; 

Thou to thy friends may'st change, or they to thee ; 
Hate not ! — but school thine heart to bear the wrong ; 

Fear not ! — ^the future thou may'st never see ; 
Courage, Pilgrim ! Life will soon be past ; 
Thy God is left thee, and thy grave at last 



LITTLE GENTLEFOLKS; 

OB, SHOWS OF THE SEASON. 
BY PAUL BELL. 

Lomdfm^ Jvly , 1847. 

I AM not about to trouble myself, or you, single or double 
Reader! with second-hand sayings of the "Terrible Children," 
pictured with such fearful reality by the swarm of French H.B.'s: 
Btill less again to depict ** Atoms of Aristocracy," bo umbrelli- 
cally hatted, so heraldically plumed, so velvetably mantled, and 
amply sashed, and silkenly shod, whom dear Academicians have 
already painted — and Moons self-sacrificingly engraved, <' out of 
pure love of Art! " The Babes of Babylon, — ^their pleasures at 
park,, and play, and party, — inasmuch as Mr. "Wordsworth knows 
that they be fathers of the Wise Men who are to rule this Gotham 
of ours — are a subject, I may, possibly, treat at length, with my 
Mrs. Bell's aid, when she comes up. Little Gentlefolks of a large 
growth are my theme this time, — a class to which I woiild fain 
see a little sound and civil schooling administered. Not by tl^e 
Miss Mary Birch who pleasantly chastises adults into submission to 
all the dislocating dances of the day — ^but by some Conversation 
Sharp, who should call them up for examination, correct the false 
quantities in then* exercises — warn them that any new attempts 



142 LITTLE 6EKTLEP0LKGU 

at " cabbaging " would but end bj plunging tbe perpetrators into 
" hot water,*' — turn back the careless — ^and bestow a "paiwfe," 
stinging as the schoolmaster's name, on §11 eril-doers twice found 
out in the same little offences. But, alas ! no one competent 
seems forthcoming. Your London world, for what I can see to 
the contrary, is sprawled over bj every one who chooses to 
be sufficiently impudent, and happens to possess a sHohf nature. 
You have now no Dr. Parrs, with the right hand to flog the pre- 
sumptuous, with the left to take liberties themselves, — ^in one 
breath to storm down some rash Pretender, in the next to single 
out some blushing girl, with a lisping *' Susan, you interest me ! 
Come and light ray pipe ! " Your Society, in short, has become 
a Democracy, without the abuses of the ancien regime being 
banished therefrom. Why, 4hen, in the absence of more 
august peals and appeals, should not I, P. Bell, ** ring my chime" 
at the doors of the Little Gentlefolks — ^under periculum, though it 
be, of being bidden to " move on" by that more peremptory 
Peeler — The Policeman ? 

Do not suppose, by this, that I am about to. enter the dwellings 
of the Poor Knights or Limited Noblemen : — to deal with unfeel- 
ing curiosity, upon persons of small incomes. Charles Lamb has 
shown us in his picture of Captain Jackson's imaginative pretences, 
— Sir Walter in his more farcical chronicle of Caleb Balderstone's 
contrivances to prop the crumbling credit of Wolf's Crag — ^that 
the airs and graces of the famine-bitten to hide their hunger may 
have their poetical no less than their coarsely-material side* And tbe 
general compassion felt for poor Miss Lucretia Tox, on the recent 
wedding of Mr. Dombey, bears also its proof collateral of the 
truth and profound wisdom of my remark tiiat *' Poor " does not 
necessarily mean '' little ; " and that *' Little," ui^appily, need not 
imply "poor." 

Let me instance, — Captain Jackson's daughter Louisa, pro- 
prietress of the ''thin warble,** and the << cracked spinet," sluffl 
be invited from the meagre fare and the make-believe comfort of 
Leonidas Cottage, to pay a visit to a country house. Or it diaH 
be Miss Tox in her weedy bonnet, or our own great Lady of the 
Row, Miss Martha Le Grand, whose explanation of a wondrouslji- 
worn wardrobe is that ** she never changes her style.** And the 
Country House shall be a rich one — the table " flowing with milk 
and honey" — ^the guests, one and all, in the same agony of genti* 
lity-^Fitz Woodvilks, Plantagenets, Longswords; Brazen How«rd^ 



LITTLE GENTLEFOLKS. US 

and ihe tike — and the visit sfaali be to take place at a race time, 
when there are carriages d discretion (as we say in France) to ride 
in, and Military to win gloves of by the score ; or when a New 
Church is to be opened, and sixteen Clergymen come to breakfast, 
eight of whom are understood to be in quest of ** some Woman of 
formed chf»*act6r, and amiable disposition," 4bc., 4S&C., &c., &c. 
I call to witness all the friends of the three Wise Virgins who 
make tiie above trefoil, whether there be not a certainty that each 
and all will hesitate. Owing to the wardrobe ? Notquite : but because 
" in these great houses, when one has given a great deal of trou'- 
ble to the servants," dz;c., he. Consciousness of slint in the 
article of vaih has deterred many a poor gentlewoman from a 
temptmg and plenteous holiday, far more ihan the old world 
spencer, or the scanty, washed muslin, ''which always looks smart. " 
These are not Little Gentlefolks — Heaven and the Fairies help 
them ! though queer, fantastic, and tiresome, with all their fidgetty 
bustle to hide and to manage and to keep up appearances ! But 
can one withhold the epithet :&om a Bake and Duchess of Fon- 
tenoy, when they manage to get a year*s wages for Dairy- Woman 
— ^and Pheasants '-Eggs-Hatcher — ^and the three Under Chumers 
and the seven Scullions who do nothing for the Cook — out of a 
paroel of poor authors and penny-a-liners and philosophers — seduced 
across the country by express invitation at a time of the Midland 
Meeting of the Mystery Association, — when the Duke and Duchess 
sUto the artists employed for all the Pictorial journals, and desm 
to have their charms and their crockery — ^their pictures and their ' 
pansies, pencilled to the life, by the dear dull Dutch Doctor, who 
is never a;bsent from such a congress and never fails to write a 
book about England as '< thick as a cheese? " Are not My Lord, 
and My Lady, verf^ little, think you ? — ^less than the Tex who has 
the tiniest tea-pot and the most starved skirt ? Do not, for this^ 
our dear Dutch Doctor, go back to Leyden, declaring that the 
English are not the . angels complimented by St. Augustine— that 
is, a people of h€a*oic stature ! — ^but a nation of Pigmies ! 

Let me mention a near view of the world of Little Gen». 
tlefolks, which our visit to London has afforded to us ; and do 
not call me spiteful, because the transaction happened to be one 
in which we (my Lame Boy and I) were personal actors. I men- 
tioned, I think, in my last, that if we were made Lions of, it was 
totally without our own concurrence. It would be bad for my Bon» 
a&d mot pleasant to myself* What we are we are, and there 's an 



144 LITTLE GENTLEFOLKS. 

end of it. I said, moreover, if I mistake not, that Mr. Jerrold 
had had great trouble in keeping the place of our residence a 
secret — ^more, I must saj^ than so unimportant a matter is worth. 
You will judge, then, of my surprise the other morning, when a 
card was brought up to us, with a rather high name upon it 
(which I shan't divulge), and a message, that a person was below, 
" who was exceedingly desirous of ^yo minutes' conversation with 
Mr. Bell." I am gruff, I own it ; and in London it is necessary to 
be cautious. There are the Charity Poles, much smarter than you 
are yourself, who make their way in and then beg you to buy a 
half-crown book. There is the Italian Lady, whose Ambassador 
is always gone to Richmond, on the very day before the signora 
desires to embark in the Antwerp Packet. There are the divinely- 
minded pair, who are "venturing to go round to collect every one's 
little mite for the Heathen " — ^meaning themselves ! — Of all these 
*' Little Gentlefolks," I thought ; and as I chanced to be shaving 
at the moment when the card was brought in to me, I sent word 
down that I was shaving, and that any one who wanted me must 
come again in half-an-hour. 

Up came an acquiescent and most friendly answer. The party 
(*tis an odious phrase, but I know of none less obnoxious) ** found 
it a pleasure to wait my leisure,'* — a message which set my Lame 
Boy off : and he went limping up and down the room, keeping up 
a jingle about ** measure'* and *' treasure.^ ^ "Brush up yoiir 
hair, father : and put on your best waistcoat ! " said the imp. 
** This must be some fashionable Poetess, who has fallen in love 
with your * Heads and Tails.' " 

I chid the Boy for a piece of nonsense unbecoming to both of 
us : — though I could not conceive what any person bearing such a 
name, could want with me. Presently the wheels stopped before 
the house again — making quite a sensation in our dull street. 
This time, up came Madam : — I must say, a striking-looking per- 
son : though my graceless boy declares she has a beard — and 
from the very first moment would call her nothing else but 
** Mustapha'' 

Do you know, sir — do you not know — what is meant by 
Manner ? — ^how a lie shall be slid against you so sweetly, that, 
although you feel it to be a lie, you cannot help holding out yoiu: 
hand, making your best bow, and saying ^^ Thanh youV^ — how you 
shall sit to be complimented on your squint, till you are satisfied 
that even eyes are out of the Line of Beauty — how you shall te 



' LITTLE GENTLEFOLKS. 145 

promised advancement in your ear, till, for balf-an-liour after, you 
feel (as Captain Jackson might have done) the spiritual pride of a 
Bishop of Exeter — or the weighty responsibilities of a Chancellor 
*— nay, even, a touch or so, of a Miss Angela's limitless hounteous- 
ness, or of the intoxicating privileges of Royalty ? Were you 
never claimed for relation, with a fascinating *• We V* — were you 
©ever cheated out of your dues with a bland and open " And 
you know, my dear friend, we agreed so and so ? " — yet all the 
-time felt the cheat : — ^bound fast, by some mesmeric charm, from 
protesting, or showing indignation : or making the slightest effort 
towards self-assertion or relief? for an Unknown Tongue, 
under such oppression ? for the comfort of the Great Man of 
Candy ! who, on receiving a visit from an Englishman of conside- 
ration; between every clause of the Interpreter's discourse, (framed, 
no doubt, like that reported in " J^otAen,") bowed his head with 
grave politeness, and replied, slowly and sonorously, " Ca dah ! " 
'* What does the cinnamon-coloured gentleman mean ? " asked the 
inquisitive John Bull, at last, — "What is he saying?" "He 
says, my Lord," was the satisfactory reply — ** that Your Highness 
lies ! ** 

Well — to return — I will not profess that impatience had reached 
ibis pass, with me, while my guest was speaking ; but, somehow 
or other, I felt the whole concern very wonderful, and ringing 
rather hollow ! " This was a pleasure which she and Sir Mark 
had long proposed to themselves! And Sir Mark was so dis- 
tressed tlbat he could not accompany -her ! Just, however, as he was 
getting on his horse, there had come a message from Windsor — 
which, we all know, was not to be disregarded — ^but she had been 
resolved not to be prevented. She covld wait no longer— and here 
she was ! " 

That, at least, was a fact self-evident. But, what next? — 
What did it all mean ? I am always fearful of wearing other 
men's laurels ; and therefore — somewhat awkwardly, my Boy says 
— explained to my polite visitant, that I feared she was in error 
with respect to me : that I was not very famous : nor hardly 
worth the courtesy of a visit : that I was not the pleasant author 
of the " Life of Canning," and the sensible new comedy — ^that I 
was as little the graceM Sculptor and Member of the Etching 
Club : — that I had, till then, conceived my poor little works 
unknown in Belgravia, and unheard of in May Fair. " Far from 
it," was the cordial reply — " They had them all in Yorkshire !— 

KO. xxxn, — ^VOL. VI. i# 



146 UTXl« OSCTTIXROVCS. 

they knew aone bjh^ri! " My bay xxiadiat gaio0. of mei, fiinceb, 
tor not asking* ** Which'i " Then, h^ wa9 biasy* making a sketch, 
of a profile : though he aaya he coidd h^:ire come by a9 good a 
study frow a side view of a Brown Bergamot Pear, wit)i a beard 
09 its upper lip I 

<*I presume," proce^ed the meliUfluoos Lady* *^tbat you are 
the father of my youn^ friend, there, the Artist ! " At which, my 
Samson, for all he si^s, he did not mind — ^twned a^ red as scarlet ; 
and I saw his-chalk giye a dig. into, the paper, which made an end 
of the Head of Mustapha. 

** Yes," I. said, — ^it was sa: well pleased, if it sboidd turn oust 
that my Lame Boy, not I, was the attraction. 

Then, would we make herself and Sir Mark happy, by giving 
them the great pleasure of our company at The Snail^ (''our cottege 
close to $ion,") on Friday, the fifteenth ? 

I hesitated i-r-we were boA of us — I. said» with thanks-^— sp 
much occupied in London, as to have no right* uor time, for hayt- 
making or play-making. 

The Lady's civility rose a degree. She was delighted to hear 
that my Boy, "her friend,** had so many engagement8;-^Bu^ 
surely an afternoon in sweet country, air- would do us botlt good : 
and the air at The SnaUs was singularly sweet, and capitallj 
country ! And everybody had heard of the Strawberry beds ai 
The Snails-^-^and tWe mght^ perhaps, be one 07 two young 
friends who would sing, a little We mttat com^ to her ! — Sir 
Mark had made her promise that she would not return to The 
Snails without having procured him the pleasure of our acquaint- 
ance* She couM not venture to face him, without having secured 
us, 

I thought I saw my Boy look as if he would like it : and not, I 
assure you* on my own aceeuni* assen^d reluctaAtlyv aud was on 
the point of askiug, how a pair of h^me-spun pilgrims like our- 
selves, might most easily get to Sion ; when, behold ! she was 
gone. " No attendance, my dear sir," said the Lady, airily : — to 
my great admiration of her simpUcity. Something of the. kind, I 
suppose^ I may have said.: for I heard my Boy*s laugh : and not 
choosing to give him an opportunity of being pert — ** And what; 
are you drawing now ? '* said L 

**A Liontrtqpi," was the saucy fellow's answer; **and Mua- 
tapha looking in. — Here she is back again, I vow." 

No :— but it was a much, more august person than herself— 



I 

I 



lier £xie'footEniui :* 'vrho would hare fof gotten himself so fkr as to 
walk into our room covered, but for the saucy ''Hats off!" of 
vxj magpie* ''My Lady forgot," said the man, "to tell your 
joung man to be sure to brii^ his books." And the hat was on : 
and the man off : and the hall-door shut ; and tiie street quiet 
^ain, ere we could ask for an expkination of so odd a message. 

" My books !" cried my boy. " Why, Father, what can they 
want with ray books, at Dancing Teas, or Singing Strawberries 
«nd Creams ? If Mustopha had asked for your books, that would 
Aave been some something more like the right thing. — I say, 
Father, there's humbug in the business, 1 11 bet you a shilling 
there is." 

Did you oyer know the Father that would own to a cheat 
which his Son had been first to detect ?-^ There is no staff we 
seniors give so unwillingly from our hands, as the divining-rod of 
superior discernments And if there is a word which puts me out 
(we have all of us our pet words and our antipathies), it is 
**kum(wff,^' So^— to make a clean breast, for the instruction of 
all who may be in a like predicament — I lost patience with my 
provoking son : bade him hold his tongue, and told him that he 
did not know the world. 

Every one who is familiar with the romance of literary life 
must be aware that strong sympathies alone are required for 
fast friendships — and that authors are liable to such abrupt 
approaches. What if my Lady and Sir Mark had been struck by 
my unworthy productions? We had heard of such things in 
Hakyon Row, W^e had read " The Lion," and Mrs. Trollope's 
'^Charles Chesterfield," and "Eanthorpei" And he was the 
person who would profit by the opening. It might, or it might 
not be the difference between a lame country drawing-master 
and a R.A. who correoted His Highness The Prince's sketches. 

Castles in the Air — as dear Mrs* Gore will bear me out in 
saying — are sometimes " run up " by contradiction, with the most 
royal disregard of expense. I had seen Miss Le Grand build, 
them by the Street and Crescent : whenever I ventured to doubt 
the marketable value of the scrap of waste ground she called her 
Orchard, but where wet clothes, not apples, hung. Thus my rebuke 
of Sampson's impertinence had disordered me, to the point of 
injuring my usually (I will say) good judgment. I thought more 
of The Snails on the fifteenth, than a man of my age should. 
What if SiF Edward should be there, being desirous of meeting 

l2 



148 LITTI.B GENTLErOI£8, 

me ? or he, whom Mrs. Blackadder, by way of being genteel, would 
always call BosweU? What if Michael Angelo wanted a new 
study for his " Vanity Fair V* I rehearsed the whole scene r 
their gracioQSness ; my diffidence — ^their holding out the Golden 
Sceptre — ^my touching the same. After many a lowly " Toa 
kind ! " (Miss Le Grand's answer to common ** How do you do ?") — » 
a trouble of which I had never heretofore dreamed, seized me* 
What manner of garments would it be proper to wear among the 
Singing Strawberries and at The Snails? — Then, I had dim visions 
that when Authors went to Court it was proper that they should 
take copies of all their works handsomely bound : and wondered 
how Mr. G. P. R. James managed. One of Miss Le Grand*s 
most frequent stories was of what Queen Adelaide had said to the 
Reverend Ozias Cockle, on the latter presenting Her Majesty with 
his sermon, for the Lying-Iu Hospitals. Perhaps something of 
the kind might be * expected in great houses. Believe me, n 
Castle in the Air is not to be completed without much anxiety as 
to all its stories, both upper and lower ! I am more thankful 
than I can express, that my Mrs. Bell was not with me during 
those few days ! The new suit of black is paid for : and I will 
never tell what it cost. 

My court attire (somewhat modester than dear Goldsmith's 
bloom-coloured apparel) had not, however, been tried on — ^wheD, 
early in the day of the tenth, while my Boy was sitting drawing, 
and I at my desk, a note was brought in. It had a smell of 
musk, poisonous enough to put the Sanatory Commission on the 
scent for the day ; and was sealed with something which my Boy 
compares to the wrong side of a half-crown reflected in a spoon. 
I have cut off the seal for little Anne ; and here is the substance 
of the " inclosure " for Mr. Jerrold's readers :— 

« The Snaiis, July 9th, 

** Lady loses no time in acquainting Mr. Bell and his 

son, that finding herself mistaken as to the latter being a musi- 
cian, she cannot receive them at The Snails on the fifteenth." 

I pushed the note to my Lame Boy — ^for the moment too entirely 
ashamed of my folly to utter one word. He turned very red : 
but it was because he saw I was vexed. He has never cut a. 
joke about me since. 

So this was what the civility of the Queen of the Snails, 
had meant: Music for the Aristocracy, and Plebeians to find 
themselves in coach-hire! Great Artists to succour little 



UTTLE GENTLEFOLKS. 149 

O^ntlefolks ! My boy declared, that he was confident that he 
had seen Mustaphas phaeton in our street, the day before : 
•* asking," he supposed, ** from the Postman, or Mr. Lilly vick 
the Water-collector, whether we did play on the Jew's-harp or 
not — ^whether we got up our faces with a black which stood in the 
open air." I discredited his story at the time : but some light 
was thrown thereon in the Court Crawler of the sixteenth. There, 
among other fashionable intelligence, figured a flaming report of 

Musique et Fraises, Lady *s Matinee, 

TEeayen bless us ! what greatness had been well nigh thrust upon 
xne. Among other royal and noble personages had been the (Half) 
Crown Prince of Saxe-Wiirstlingen ; the Heir Apparent of 
Assam, Siam, or Seringapatam (I forget which) with his suite — 
-and Dr. Polyglott by way of interpreter. There had been the 
4;hree great Heiresses — the Juno — the Venus — and the Miner?a 
4)f our golden Olympus— and THE DUKE — ** revelling,'* said the 
Craioler, among the "graces and the strawberries :" Then, after 
the grandees came plainer persons, the ** Messieurs ** A. E. and 
I. 0. U. — ^to go no farther. The glorious chronicle of this sweetly 
rural festivity — the air of which was to have done us so much good 
— was wound up with a panegyric on the concert, which was prin- 
cipally contributed by ** a reohercM party of amateurs. The Misses 
jskud the Messieurs Etcetera : whose performances had all Une telle 
the thorough-bred je ne scats quoi of dillettanti — and whose 
ennobling position in the highest circles renders them superior to 
the rage of lucre '* — aided by some professional guitar playing and 
.Binging from Signer Bellini and his son ! 

The Crawler added, with its usual perspicacious accuracy, " that 
these were the sole surviving relations of the distinguished com- 
poser of * Norma,' who had been rescued from their obscurity by 

the notoriously fostering patronage of Lady ,'* &;c. <fec., — ^to 

wbich followed the well-known doxology of adulation. 

** Why, Father ! " almost screamed my Boy, in the delight of 
A discovery — " those must be those half-starved looking people 
who play on the guitar at number 6 B ! Mrs. Tankard told me 
their names were Bellamy ! " 

Even so it proved to be. We have, subsequently, come to know 
both Father, and son : (I, to gain, thereby, a close insight into 
Prodigy Life by which your readers may be the better ) ; and it 
turns out that my Boy was right : that the Queen of The Snails 
did pay them a visit on the Ninth Ultimo^-^id promise them. 



150 LITTLE GENTLEFOLKS. 

too, country air, strawberries, patronage, and the feryid gratitude 
of the always-prevented Sir Mark : that the poor people had toiled 
to Sion, through the heat and the dust, '<on speculation " as the 
Father owned — and there was a sort of squalid and trading tone 
in his confession which made me sick at heart — that the Hostess 
had introduced them to nobody — Sir Mark being never at his- 
wife's parties ; had hardly thanked them for their playing and 
singing ; and that not only they, but also the Wiirstlingens and 
A&sams and Golden Venuses and illustrious Dukes — to say nothing: 
of the Messieurs I. 0. U., etc. — had complained loudly of being^ 
entrapped thither on false pretences. Not one Strawberry was to 
be seen, or found, or heard of, about The Snails ! They, the 
Bellamys, had subsequently made inquiries : (and here, to be just, 
let me observe that Artists seem always nervously unwilling to 
make inquiries l)efore "hand). The Great — no, the Little — Lady 
was well known it seems. She it was who had gone down on her 
knees to Paganini : She had chaced Malibran — Heaven knows- 
where ! She it was who had been only prevented by Teutonic 
perseverance, from donning one of Sir Mark's bor coatd and hats^ 
and casting in her lot with the German serenaders, when they 
assailed the Brompton villa of Mademoiselle Jenny ! and distanced 
in this, and subsequent like advances, she has since grown 
critical and depreciating : and said cutting things with regard te 
Master Betty's Meteor and Mob popularity ! She was well known 
to the real Bellinis et id genus — who would no more of her straws 
berry leaves — and hence, unable any longer to snow ** distinguished 
foreigners," like a woman of spirit, had of late commenced patrio- 
tically snowing ** native talent," and sunk (must I say ?) from the 
Bellinis to the Bellamys ! 

So much for a Little Lady on the largest possible scale I — one 
of a class merely — and the class a large one — ^who are the fittest 
possible subjects for the microscopic observation. It is desperate^ 
to fancy, that in the scale of animated nature, there should be found 
creatures subsidiary to these Emmets ! Yet such are all who- 
minister to, or employ them ; or, like Bell or Bellamy, allow them- 
selves to be cajoled into the slightest acceptance of their advances. 
liVe have no business to rail too righteously against the antics of 
Dwarfs ; if we hold a clerkship in the Dwarf manufaotol*y. But 1 
find the Pygmies, their littleness, and the World's consent, grow 
upon me, just when I should have done. There is, alas ! room 
enough for a second mission into LiUiput. 



151 



THE CLIMAX OF THE MIDDLE AGE MANIA. 
THE EXHIBITIONS AT WESTMINSTER. 

At the beginning of the last month the competition ftfr oil 
paintings took place, and the works of the competitors were 
exhibited at Westminster Hall. There were 120 pictures, not 
one of which was positively bad. That those which gained prizes 
are quite entitled to them no one, we believe, who has seen them^ 
can doubt. 

It is not, however, our intention to dwell on this transient 
exhibition : it is another and more permanent one to which it is 
our purpose to direct attention — ^that presented by the New 
House of Lords — to all intents and purposes a ** Show PlaCe." 
The whole scope of its designers has been to please the public by 
suddenly revealing a blaze of finery, very little consideration being 
given to the purpose and objects of the apartment. Now, there- 
fore, that public admiration has subsided, we deem it a fitter 
opportunity to examine this production closely and coolly than 
wheh its " wonderful effects " won the ptarises of every superficisil 
observer. 

The first instalment of the great debt to the people and the 
parliament due by that exalted firm, of Which Mr. Barry the 
architect is the acting member, and of which the Royal Commis- 
sioners of Fine Arts are sleeping partners, was paid on the 15th of 
April. After nearly ten years' struggle with bricks and mortar 
—with ^one-masons' ** striKfes,'* and ventilating quackery — with 
dissatisfied artists who were beaten in competition — ^with mediieval 
eculptorB — with plumbers, painters and glaziers in the style of the 
Middle Ages*— with makers of modem-antique fhmiture and 
manufactures x)f Gothic decorations — with in short mediseval 
maniacs of every shade of artistic delusion — ^the House of Peers 
was opened. It has ah*eady received that grave and reverend 
Seignory, known in this country as the " Lords spiritual and 
temponu. 

It is natural that public expectation should have been most vividly 
eitited towards thro small ini^talment of a great promke. It is- 



152 THS CLIMAX OF THE lODDIiE AGE MANIA. 

the first sample from which they could judge of the prohahle effect, 
scope, and character of liie bulk — one little bit of the Present from 
which they could peer into that vista of the Future ; at the end 
which they may see, as through an inverted telescope, the entire 
palace complete. Indeed there was scarcely a circumstance 
omitted either in the preliminary proceedings, or in the progress 
of this national edifice, calculated to raise bright anticipation to 
the highest point. In the first place, besides providing the legis- 
lators of Great Britain with a roof to cover them, the new palaoe 
of Westminster was intended to give such an impetus to art, as 
art had not experienced at any previous epoch of architecture or 
history. With this view every possible means and appliance was 
created : a committee of taste was formed with royalty at its 
head ; and every sculptor and painter in the kingdom was invited 
to offer his aid and his skill in adorning the gigantic design of 
Barry. Sound judgment in selecting from the cloud of candi- 
dates was to put aside the prestige of celebrity, and the influence 
of name ; proficiency was alone to gain each prize, and competi- 
tion was to conquer the fiercest assaults of jobbery. From the 
new edifice, English art was to commence a vigorous career, and 
a national school to have a local habitation and a name. Ever since 
it was begun, the Royal Commission have had the credit of so 
diligently superintending the progress of the work, that no portion 
of it — ^from the stupendous magnificence of the Victoria tower to 
the minute tracery of a frieze or a boss — but has been modelled 
in little, ''sat upon,'' and considered with the fond hope of 
ensuring such harmony of parts as would produce a grand, unique, 
and comprehensive whole. 

The effect has been a vision, which has, for the last ten years, 
been floating before the pubHc, of a legislative palace which will — 
if the present generation survive long enough to see it completed — 
combine all possible elegance, splendour and brilliancy of detail, 
with grandeur, dignity, utility and fitness of mass. The decora- 
tions, it has been dreamed, though not deficient in brilliancy, 
would be — by the subduing and harmonising influence of the 
Royal Commission — subordinated to the architectural tone and 
business purposes of the various interiors which the walls enclose. 
British patriots, therefore, have been swelling with the hope that 
at some distant day there will stand in Westminster an edifice 
worthy of the age and of the nation. 

The opening of the New House of Lords helped to dissolve this 



THE CLnfAZ OF THE MIDDLE AGE HANU* 153 

irision from ihe expectant imaginations of the aristoccaey when it 
blazed upon them on the night of the 15th of April. We, who 
were present, cannot trust ourselves to describe this gorgeous and 
spangled interior, and therefore prefer abstracting the temperate 
and tasteful description of it which appeared in the Daily News. 

^ It is the House of the Cloth of Gold. . At the upper end is the throne, a 
mass of tabernacle work and gilding more like a shrine for St. Thomas 
^ Beckett, or at least our Lady of Walsingham, and just that kind of seat 
-where fancy would place Edmund the Martyr or Edward the Confessor, not 
William IV. or Queen Victoria. Immediately above the throne is Mr. Dyce's 
£re9Co * The Baptism of Ethelbert,' too high to be seen to advantage, and on 
either side of the fresco rich red draperies powdered with stars, and crowns^ 
and lions, in yellow, suspended to conceal the recesses left vacant for future 
^«eboes. At the lower end of the house is the reporters' gallery, and imme- 
diately above that, three more vacant arcades for frescoes. The eye ascend- 
ing beholds a flat panelled ceiling filled with shields, devices, and legends, 
which puzzle and fatigue attention. Ranging lower you observe that the 
house is lighted with twelve windows,' six on either side, and that one of the 
windows is filled with painted glass, containing full-length figures of early 
Idngs and queens, made by Mr. Hardman, of Birmingham, in the spirit of 
mediasval art — out of drawing in every line, and every one with hands like 
glove-stretchers. These are done as a ^ pattern ' for Messrs. Ballantyne and 
Allan, who have the commission for the stained glass, to work by. Between 
the windows and at either end of the house are niches, eighteen in number^ 
ffxr statues of the Magna Charta barons, but two alone have as yet been 
erected — Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Robert Fitzwalter, * Mar- 
^al of the army of Grod and the holy church.' These are by Mr. Thomas, 
the able sculptor of the whole of the statues throughout the building. Imme- 
diately beneath the windows runs a light and elegant gallery of brass-work, 
'filled in compartments with coloured mastic in imitation of enamel. On the 
soffits of the gallery (or comibe inunediately beneath the gallery), are the 
arms of the sovereigns and chancellors of England, from the reign of 
Edward III. to the present time, and below these are the seats of the peers, 
five on either side, covered with red morocco, and luxurious to sit down 
upon. The body of the house is occupied by a large table of oak (plain for 
a wonder), and the red woolsack of the chancellor. The carpet is blue, 
powdered with stars, in the old star-chamber fashion, and the carpet of the 
throne is red, spotted with heraldic lions and roses. After this general 
description of the house, we may turn to some of the details. 

^ There are parts, however, of the house that differ from the bulk t)f the 
building, and one is pleased to escape from an architectural din)hiy, not un- 
like 6iai;er in his coat, by turning to panels where gold-leaf and colour have 
done nothing to disturb the repose of what you see. The side panelling of 
the house, both above and below the brass gallery, is carved in compart- 
ments, the lower tiers in what is called the < linen pattern ; ' the upper tiers 
in eniiched arcades and ornaments, with legends of ^ God save the Queen.' 
The corridors running at the sides and without the house are also plain ; an<d 
here you find stone spandrels and bosses unchoked by colour, and with the 



154 THB CLDCAX Ot THE MIDBLB AOE MAICIA. 

marks of the chisel still Tisible npon them. It Ib really h leU^ to get hei^ 
and escape from the splendour you have seen — ^the multitude of liooB 
* calming the terrors of their claws in gold.' and the extreme bad taste of 
painting Langton and Fitzwalter of a bronze colour, and introducing a lion 
and unicorn vrith vanes within doors, where it is im^ssible that a wind couid 
be found to stir them.*' 

The effect of all this, when suddenly presented to the entrant, 
is, it cannot be denied, pleasing. The eye is dazzled, and the 
imaginationiis for the moment captivated ; but only for a moment ; 
for when the judgment begins to iterate, the charm is at onee 
found to be identical with that communicated in beholding a 
beautiful toy, or a cunningly-manufactured curiosity. You find 
that your admiration has been won by the finical fidelity with 
which the barbaric beauty of a past and dark age has been repro- 
duced. The associations called up by your eye, though most 
agreeable, are truly discordant, when the pleasing impression 
sinks into the mind, and commences the operation of thought. 
Then it is you ask. What is this ? — a. hall for legislative wisdom 
to deliberate in, or a fairy palace? — a chamber in which the 
solid welfare of a large proportion of the civilised world is inflit- 
enced, — or a fragile production of Mr. Gunter, the confectioner — 
an edifice by Mr. Bradwell, the eminent manufacturer of the 
last scenes of pantomimes ? 

In short, when the effect of the praises which have already b^n 
lavished by some portion of the press on this flimsy interior has cooled 
off, — when the public eye has recovered its sight after the blind- 
^S gorgeousness of the decorations, the deplorable conviction wiU 
follow, that the opening of the new House of Lords has awakenei 
the sanguine for art from a very noble vision, and put to flight all 
expectation of the immediate resuscitation of true taiste. Not that 
the dream has been dispelled by the rough hand of a coarse 
and shocking disappointment, but by the light touch of a bri^t 
and dazzling deception ; for the new House of Lords, as a hous^ 
for legislative purposes, really is a deception ; but we must own 
a very pretty one. 

Bring the apartment to what bar you will, it is a mistak^^^ 
morally, historically, and artistically, an error. Let Us see hoW 
an inspection of it affects the mind morally — the very first .point 
of view in which all works, pf etending to the rank of woirkfi of art, 
should be considered — for the end of all art is emotion. 

Architecture, and its helpmate. Decorative Art, have only ddft^ 



fEZ CLDlAX OF THE HIDDLB A6B MAKIft. 155 

their office "weU when they have raised in the mind emotions 
accordant with the special purposes for which their creations are 
intended. The gay decorations of the Theatre or hall-room help 
on the impression of pleasure and recreation of which they are the 
scenes. The soher plainness of the Hall of Justice leaves the 
faculties to the free exercise of the grave duties to he performed 
in it ; the massive grandeur of the Cathedral imparts a sentiment 
of awe and of veneration ; hut what emotion can he expected 
from a House of Lords tricked out in party colours and gold- 
leaf ? Will the spectator feel that he is in a chamher devoted 
to the performance of the highest functions of the State ? WiB 
it recaU the sufferings of Essex, or the eloquence of Chat- 
ham ? Or will not the hlack-leaded plaster casts, the grotesquely- 
costmned figures stained in glass, the dazzling ceiling, the rose- 
powdered carpet, the mastic-studded rails, and the orchestra-like 
reporters' gallery, put him in mind of a modem mediaeval fancy 
hall, and make him sigh for JuUien's hand, and a partner in ruffle 
and laced stomacher ? 

The attenjpt to suggest historical associations has heen made with 
equal ill-success. From one of the original specifications put forth 
for the instruction of the artist-competitors hy the Royal Commis- 
sion of Fine Arts, it was to be inferred that the hall should have 
heen suggestive of various periods of history, hy means chiefly of 
frescoes illustrating prominent events in British annals. The 
house, as it is, on the contrary, is suggestive of only one period of 
history — ^unhappily, the worst possible for the interest of true art 
— ^that when Gothic art was in its infancy ; when forms were 
badly conceived and clumsily limned, for the want of skill ; wheii 
kings and queens were stained on glass with straight claws, be- 
cause fingers and toes were beyond the imitative powers of the 
primitive draughtsman ; when the British Lion was made to hear 
a desperate resemblance to the equally-fabulous griffin ; — when> 
in short, monkish art was too young to round off the grotesque 
into the beautiful. The rennaissants decorators have servilely 
copied these bad forms — and this brings us to consider the subject 
in its artistic bearings. 

Blind to everything but the dark ages and the blazing beauty 
of primitive colour and heraldic gaud, they have produced a general 
effect by which it is impossible to lead the imagination captive 
through the ** dim vistas of hoary antiquity ;" and this impossi- 
bility T^sides in the very first principle from which they start* 



156 1HS OLDCAZ OF THE lODDIE AOE MAHU. 

Orerlooking one of the true causes of the sensations awakened b j 
antique fonns and objects — ^veneration — ^they haye kept out of view 
the fact that the very newness and freshness of the blazonry with 
which their work is covered, destroys that emotion. They have for* 
gotten, that no cunning of the mortal artificer can create the effect 
which the most efficient, though the slowest of all workmen, Time, 
so unerringly produces. It is because the slow destroyer has dimmed 
ihe flaring gaudiness of mediseval decorations that they please the 
eye of the amateur, because Time has toned down and softened the 
puerile splendours of a monkish age, which were characteristic of a 
«tate of infant art, and which are only interesting now historically, 
as indications of what art was. But deliberately, painfully, to re- 
produce these puerilities in the healthy utility and the vigorous 
manhood of this age, can only be deplored as a substantive ana- 
chronism. Everything calculated to associate the hall with strength 
and power has been '* sicklied over " with spangles and paint. 
The oak which furnishes 

« The wooden walls of Old England " 

has contributed the throne of the new House of Lords, bat 
only to be concealed by gilt and coloured frippery. The stone 
carvings are hidden behind red, blue, and yellow pigment, and the 
walls are covered with childish legends, traced, luckily, in such 
extremely gothic characters, that nobody can read them. In 
justice, however, we must not omit a single characteristic of the 
present time. One of the legends establi^es a full recognition of 
the ** Fifth Estate ' ' — ^the Press. Over a lobby of entrance is written 
in Gothic characters, "To the Keporters* Gallery." 

But what is the use of a reporters* gallery within walls where 
the ciy of "Hear! hear!" is uttered in vain — where eloquence 
might as well have no tongue — and where h* that hath ears to 
hear can not hear ? It is said, that the Frenchman who first made 
-sugar from beet-root, produced a capital article — to look at. It 
was exquisitely white ; its crystallization was dazzlingly perfect ; 
it had, in short, only one fault — it was not sweet. The story 
applies to this new heill for oratory and audience ; nothing can be 
prettier to look at,* but it is adapted for many things better than 
for speaking and hearing. 

Thus, then, has the vision which we have indulged respecting 
Westminster Palace been dispelled. Instead of a structure aa 
aoble in detailed execution as it really was grand in design, we 



THB CLIMAX OS TA& HIDDIB AGS MAIOA. 157 

shall hare — ^if the present style of decoration he persevered in— 
a had imitation of the worst age which could have heen selecited 
for the artist to copy from* Where, then, are all the designs^ 
professions, and institutions, not only of the Fine Art Commission, 
hut of the architect himself ? Truly they have heen swept away. 
The whole hody have fallen down flat to worship the mediseval 
idol. The Puseyites hegan this idolatry, and the Pvginites have 
consummated it on the altar of had taste. By the sacrifice of 
pure English art, neither the architect, who has altered his original 
design to adapt it to the new Gothic mania^ nor the Fine Art 
Commission, appear to have had wills of their own. They have 
heen drawn into the mistake of stopping that progress which is 
the strength and glory of this age, to put us hack a half-a-dozen 
centuries. Despite their original puhlished invitations to modem 
artists, they now tell them, '' You must not he artists of to-day, 
hut professors of the paintings and sculpture that flourished six 
centuries ago." 

Let, however, this specimen of the whole, afforded hy the new 
House of Lords, have its proper effect on puhlic opinion, which 
must rise and express itself emphatically before the Middle Age 
Mania is spread over the rest of the gigantic palace. As yet it 
has only partly disfigured the building, and, fortunately, the sin 
exists chiefly in the decorations. The architect's main design, 
though modified, has not been hopelessly distorted by it. The 
larger, grander parts of the structure will always do honour to the 
genius of Barry. The Victoria Tower will, in every respect, be 
the grandest pile of its kind in the world ; but alas, the new 
House of Lords, what is it ? A grievous, gorgeous, gilded, flimsy, 
fabe-timed blunder. It will represent to a future age no trait — 
it will leave behind no expression of the national characteristic 
of the middle of the nineteenth century. It will merely indicate 
that about this period the Middle Age Mania wa^ at its height* 



158 



A SERMON ON UNIVERSAL CHARITY, 

AND WHAT WA8 THE FRUIT IT BORS, 
BY G. DB LYS. 

A SHORT diseourse waa preached, at the pariah church of 



by a young clergyman, on the first Sunday after his appointment, at 
£4:0 a year, as curate to a canon residentiary who held that livings 
with other preferment. He had never before addressed any con-c 
gregation. The parish contained several families of great respectr 
ability ; which term must always be understood to signify wealth, 
and those other adjuncts akin to wealth, that not only place the pos« 
sessors above all necessity of conforming themselves in any respect 
to each other's tastes, pursuits, and habits, but make them also in 
a great measure independent of other men's favourable opinioA 
and good will ; which the poorer and meaner sort must cultivate, 
according to the same law by which they cultivate the ground, 
with toil and sweat, as giving them a title to the creature com-» 
forts of life, nay, oftener stUl, the only means of supplying its 
merest wants. 

It was a very orderly parish. Rich and poor, all within it) 
were regular church-goers ; for our young curate's predecessor 
had, throughout a long residence there, always punctually and 
zealously discharged his high duties. Faithful to his Great 
Master, he waa a tender and generous friend to the poor, a stay 
and comforter to the sick and desolate, a kind and able counsellor 
to the conscience-stricken and the doubtful, and an active minister 
of peace among all. Therefore all in the parish were of his con- 
gregation. But, at his death, some differences of opinion on pole- 
mical matters, which had been restrained from outbreak by his 
healing doctrines and example, broke forth among the more 
respectable of the communicants into, to say the least of it, an 
intense and peremptory desire to ascertain what might be the con- 
troversial bias of the new pastor. And none doubted but that some- 
what in that sort might be to be gathered or inferred from the 
inaugural discourse. And each was hopeful of discovering therein, 
as in a chart laid open before a practised eye, the indication of some 



jptroug'hddix^- ground, some snug and land-locked cove of shelter, 
fi>^ bis own small dark privateer craft of warlike controversy to 
m^t its biting anchor in. 

But in this expectation all were disappointed. Of High or Low 
Church tendency— of a leaning to the Arminian or to the Calvin- 
MfAe side of the Articles — of a preference for !E!vangelical or Tract- 
arian interpretation of the siense, natural or non-natural, wherein 
points of Faith are to be rightly understood— of all this nothing 
•indeed, could therein be found, how jealously soever sought for. 
£ven as the visionatry water-springs and pali;a groves which mock 
the dreary wayfarer of the desert with promise of some loved 
shadow for repose or sparkling draught to slake his burning thirst, 
Vttt vainsh in succession as they rise before his dazzled and craving 
hope^— 'SO would a faint glimpse sometimes present itself to Fancy, 
a. dreamy pictmro in the far-off distance of some blest oasis of 
jre&eshing^ ei^clusive doctrine* where the contentious and weary 
ncdght rest and banquet ; and, ever and anon, an eager impulse 
beat quick and strong in answer to an opening sentence, which 
^teemed to promise n\ueh, yet passed away, leaving what was most 
looked and longed for niore vague and doubtful even than before. 
All was of the simple Catholick doctrine of Him who set the little 
child in the midst,, and said '* of such is the kingdom of Heaven; *' 
who preferred the worship of the Publican before that. of the Phar 
rise.e ; who oaileth to the heavy laden to come to Him, and He 
. v^iU give then^ rest ; and whose voice was heard upon the waters of 
Gajilee, saying, " It 13. 1 — be not afraid." 

The text was from the words of the Apostle of the Gentiles-^ 
*' But the greatest of these ift Charity.*' And the. discourse was 
of the nature and obligations of Universal Ch^^rity. It appeared 
to some to he. a text singularly chosen for the occasion. For how 
could it iqpply itself to the subject of an appointment to a laborious 
curacy at £4sO atyear ? Nevertheless, all left the Church highly 
pleased \irith the discourse. Several expressed their approbation 
i^ letters sent by the next post to their friends. A letter of con- 
gratulatioQ, la^tly^ was addressed to the young curate himself by 
Ixh f^r distant Rector, to whose ears the intelligence had come as 
j^ flattering tribute of praise for his considerate goodness in having 
vouohsafed to the parish a curate, who had made such early display 
of powers and diaposition to serve God and his flock. These letters 
we will give, in order, as they were communicated to us : — 

The first was from a single lady, of respectable independence 



160 A SESMON OK ITNIVEBSAI. CHABITT. 

in the pariab, of much and long experience, and whose judgment 
was much deferred to by a large body of correspondents of her 
own sex, age, and condition, on all subjects of religious and social 
propriety, 

Letter I. — From Miss Judith Sharps, op Stone Cottage, to Mnsk 
JusTtJS CramptoM) of Edge-on-the-Sower, SowerbTi Yorkshire^ 

Mt Beloved Friend, 

I haste, according to promise, to send you an account of 
our yoimg curate's first sermon. I can truly say that, as far as it 
went, it was, both in manner and substance, all that even you or 
I could desire. I say, cts far <is it went. There were, doubtless^ 
topicks omitted which we should, both of us, be inclined to think 
most desirable in the introductory effort of a person to whom the 
requirements of his flock naturally turn for satisfaction, if not for 
confirmation, on some points of belief as well as discipline, — ^yon 
know what I mean — on which you and I have so often conversed 
in such happy agreement, but on which, unhappily, so many 
divisions are to be foimd within the pale of our church. On these 
points, I lament to say it, absolutely nothing could be inferred, 
even as to the preacher's own impressions. But we must hope 
for the best. Nor was there in his manner that tone of authority^ 
that confidence of stewardship, one so much wishes to see, particu- 
larly in those whose ministry is among a congregation containing 
within it so many of the lower, and vulgar, and grossly ignorant 
sort, as in this parish. But this may come, and I trust w9l, with 
more use of the pulpit. 

His text was, on the whole, not ill chosen. Paul, 1st. Corinth. » 
Chap. XIII., verse 13. " But the greatest of these is Charity." 
A doctrine much needed amongst us here. Heaven knows, to be spe- 
cially recommended in the largest and most Christian sense. He told 
us all boldly of our faults. I say us; — ^for you know, my dear, / 
don 't pretend to be better than my neighbours. I do believe, I 
mai^ say it of myself, without arrogance, that ^ there be one per- 
fection whose importance I have ever more specially acknowledged 
or humbly striven for with a more hopeful zeal than any other of 
the perfections necessary to a Christian calling, it is this very one 
of Charity, in its widest and universal influence, knowing how im- 
perfect we all are ; the best of us. To you, 1 will say it, dear 
Mrs. Justus, (for with you I have no reserve), I do not remember 
jhaying ever heard anything that set me more a-thinking — ^more 



A SERMON ON UNIVBRSAL CHARITT* -161 

.perhaps, I am ready to admit, than. ever before— -on this great 
subject. He took the Apostle's definitions in their order ; en- 
forcing each mth so much modesty and good sense, but at the 
same time w^th an imder-current of shrewd and searching illustra- 
tion, capable of being as clearly and particularly applied as if he had 
known those he was addressing as leng and thoroughly as /hare, 
and as if he had said to A, B, and 0, (who shall be nameless,) ** 1 
appeal now to your consciences against yourselves." It was very 

. remarkable, this ; and gives me a high opinion of his discernment. 
I leave it to you, my dear, to judge,— for you know this unhappy 
parish almost as well as I do. If you had but heard the dauntless 
and missionary tone in which he gave out these words, and com- 

. mented upon them : — ** Charity suffereth long, and is kind. Cha- 
rity envieth not. Charity vaunteth not itself ; is not puffed up I " 
Faucy now the squire's pew, which you know, with its scarlet 
lining and fringed cushions, just under the pulpit which he spoke 
from ; and in that pew the squire himself, and those awfully 
spoilt children, whom one could so whip ; and his odious wife, with 
her French polka pelisse sticking out there ! " Puffed up " 
indeed ! I '11 be bound the Corinthians never saw anything like 
that ! And he, from whom hardly a civility, so much as a dinner 
at the Hall, or even a bow at the church-door must be expected 
— except, indeed, near election- time — and Hien to be sure he 
is condescending enough ! And she, who from sheer envy 
cannot see one's name down for an annual 2L to our Chris- 
tian -Fellowship -according- to - Church - of -England- Discipline Day 
School, but she must needs top one with her ostentatious 5/. ! 
And then, ** Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her 
own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil !" I could not but 
take one peep over the corner of my pew into the neoct pew to me, — 
you know it, — to see how tins was borne by no less a person than 
that Mrs. Joab Fierce, the rich salesman's widow there, who can't 
speak two words together of intelligible SkLglish, and is one of the 
life-patronesses of our school, and certainly not behaving herself 
very seemly among her betters, with that show of artificial flowers 
at church on herself and her two big daughters, and their eternal 
eye-glasses, — and bustling going into church, and bustling going 
out, whilst other people toould be collecting their thoughts for pious 
meditation, — and she, the most violent-tempered, censorious, poor 
thing of any I can name in this quarrelsome censorious neighbour- 
liood. Never happy but when she thinhs she is inflicting a wound. 

NO. XXXII. — VOL. VI. M 



162 A SERMON ON UNIYEBSAL GHABITY. 

I wonder how she felt. At all events I was glad, for her sake, to 
see she looked as if she would net forget it ; and 1 warrant our 
young clergyman will be no favourite of Ker's for the lecture he 
read her. In short, as I said before, the sermon was a most 
valuable one ; though I fear its doctrines have fallen sadly by the 
wayside, where they will be trampled on. I am bound in charity 
to hope not. 

But I must now leave you, dearest Mrs. Justus — I must attend 
the Charity Day School. For it is my week. And I am the more 
bound to go, as that Mrs. J. P. happens to be my colleague as 
weekly visitor. And I would not be five minutes late. For I 
could not trust the school for one minute of the five to her sole 
management, and answer for the consequences of her unspeakable 
vulgarity, ignorance, bad temper, and bad judgment. So I break 
off. But, knowing you will rejoice with me in all I have so 
imperfectly said of this excellent sermon^ I remain, my beloved 
Mend, as ever. 

Yours most affectionately, 

J. Shabpe. 

Letter II. — ^From Mbs. Joab Warlt Pierce to the Ret. Grislbt Skinner^ 
Harden Ttthes, Flint. Canon Residentiary of . 

Reveeend Sir, 

You laid me under an obligation, so to speak, that I 
should write you, at earliest convenience, my candid opinion of our 
new minister, as his first effort might have give it me. I hasten 
to take this opportunity by due couree of post so to do, beholden as 
I am to your expressed wishes, according to the best of my poor 
abilities. And excuse all faults. I should do the young genUeman 
An injustice, — which I hope I never may be found to do an injustice 
to any fellow-creature, knowing of the same, — if I did not say he 
'made a great impression on us all. Not but there was, I am free 
to acknowledge, a many particulars on which in this benighted 
parish I will have the boldness to think he might have denounced, 
much to our instruction and comfort ; which he didn't. Not that 
I intend any amputation on the young gentleman, or would pre-^ 
sume it. Though I have heard doctrine, Reverend Sir, from them 
as shall be nameless to youy that I much wished might have borne 
fruit to edification and sound controversy on this favourable occasion. 
But, from beginning to end, though often led to hope he might have 
give us something on the points I have so often listened to with 



A SERMON ON UIOYERSAL OHARITY. 163 

improyement, (not from our late curate, good sir, but from his better 8 f) 
on the backslidings of Popery and Sectarianism, Antimonialism, 
Sublapsarians, and Supralapsarians, and Anchorites and Amorites 
which was smote with the edge of the sword, and the like, which, 
as I said before, he did not cast any healing light on any of them, 
which is much to be lamented ; — ^though venal. Nevertheless, 
both my daughters and me, which went early and staid it out, with 
our humble respects to you. Reverend Sir, and all your worthy 
family, and we beg particular Comp'ts to Mrs. S. and all we hear 
is expected soon to be added to your blessed family, and may your 
Reverence have your quiver full on *em, — which we hope they are 
in good health, as thanks be to Him we are at this present,-^ 
agrees in opinion that the Sermon was to Edification, and so, in my 
poor way will endeavour to give you the best account I can of it. 

First, his delivery was undeniable, though wanting a trifle in 
unction, which may come. Grant it may! But what is theSe 
externals to ''that which passeth show, good mother"? (See 
Psalmist.) 

Now what do you think was his text ? If I venter, with all 
diflerence, to think it the best he could have chose, and if I may 
venter to riddle your reverence as to what you may guess that 
text was, I saying it is my favourite text, I almost think I hear 
your reverence make answer and say, " Mrs. J. P. I know what 
it was — I know your heart. It was * The greatest of these is 
Charity.' " And so it was, dear sir. " But the greatest of these 
is Charity." And nothing about ** Faith," and ** Hope," — ^which 
is neither here or there, — ^but only " Charity." And, as far as I 
may speak, I never did hear this heavenly doctrine more fruitfully 
expounded in our poor vermicular. How my heart went witibi 
him as he decanted upon the thirteen Corinthians I '* thinketh no 
evil "— ** suffereth long '*— " is kind "— «' envieth not." Sir, 
there are such things as bowels, and we pity our erring neighfours ; 
which I have always felt bound in, so to do ; and I ponder their 
iniquities in the night season. And could I but hope for the 
ripening of good doctrine like this in the hearts and minds of the 
uncontroverted ! And could I but hope for the effects, as mj 
heart yearned to my neighbours who was even in the next pew to 
me, which she shall be nameless ; — for why ? — ^you. Reverend Sir, 
know who I mean ; and I must say, saving your reverence, good 
sir, as cantankerous an old cat as ever was in a Christian congre- 
gation; who is envying of everybody who makes a handsomer 

m2 



164 A SERMON ON UNIVERSAL CHARITY. 

donation to our school, and a-putting down of her shabby two 
pound ten annular, which I '11 be bound she would call it a 
** bestowing of all her goods to feed the poor," and a "giving of 
her body to be burned." At least that's my introsusception. 

But, to return to the points of the sermon — and oh, with how 
longing a desire do I look for that blessed maxim to strike its 
fruits deep into the earth and bear its triumphant roots aloft, 
wherein, as our pastor truly said, is the very essence of all 
Christian charity, and for why ? — ^it ** thinketh no evil." 

And how the blessings can we hope we are in the right way if, 
like some, which I grieve to say there is too many of them, and 
could name them, leastwise some of them who really and truly 
thinks nothing but evil of their neighbours, which is their flesh, 
and blood — and what concern have we with our neighbour's 
piccadillys, having all, the best of us, beans in our own I 's, and 
** is not puffed up." Which my second daughter, known to you, 
sir, when the minister came to this head, as I looked at her, to 
see if she wasn't thinking of something, the dear give me just 
one intelligent glance of her down-cast eyes, turning of them up 
in silent devotion, the picture of a true angel, with her pink-and- 
white magnolias and three rows of French lace on her bonnet, and 
just once, as if to say, ** I understand you, mother," she spelt on 
her pretty fingers, for me to see, the six letters S. Q. U. I. R. E.; 
I do declare, I believe truly, if it had not been in church, I must 
have smiled outright. For there he was, to be sure, in his great 
gawdy pew under the north window, and the whole family, through 
which you might see the yellow barouche a-waiting with the coach- 
man and the two footmen in blue plushes, and -silver knee-bands, 
begging pardon for my freedom in the same, like heathens of old 
they might be, and to be sure they might better have been inside, 
in prayer, with the bay horses a-snorting, as if a-purpose to disturb 
the congregation, which the great Danish dog was continually a 
jumping up at their noses. From my heart I pity them, which 
so says both my daughters likewise, and would do them any good 
that laid in our powers. But, alas, good sir, for the " sounding 
braes ! " — and what is She but a ** twinkling symbol ? " 

But here I must break off — For I am, this week, one of the two 
ladies visitors of our Charity School, which capacity I hkve filled 
ever since my blessed Joab was removed to a better place, who 
respected you, being eligible to the same as widows and maiden 
ladies ; and it *s the time, and something tells me I couldn't in 



A SEBHOX ON UNIVERSAL CHARITY. 165 

conscience leave the duties to be performed bj an individual, whom 
I will not mention, whose christen name begins with a J and her 
Sur with a U, and a S and a H, who is, I am sorry to say, my 
Collick at this present on the work. But I never shall forget 
this sermon on tJniversal Charity, and remains, reverend sir, 

Your obedient Servant, 

Priscilla Warly Pierce. 

Leitea III. — Fbom Sib Habdress Pouculet^ of High Hall Manor^ 

10 THE SAME. 

My good Friend, 

I am happy to be able to express to you my satisfaction at 
the choice you have made in the young man whom, with my con- 
currence, you have sent down to this parish to supply the place 
of the late curate. At all events, his inauguration sermon yester- 
day was of a sort which, as far as the tendency of it went, I could 
not but approve, and which I think you would have been pleased 
with also— which are the main points. I feel it, as you know, to 
be a duty I owe to myself, as a magistrate, and patron of this 
living, and proprietor of the lands and free warren of this parish, 
to take some interest in the doctrines which are preached to the 
common people. 

He is a young man of creditable and gentlemanlike appear- 
ance, and, in so far, does honour to your choice. I might, per- 
haps, have wished he had taken a somewhat more authoritative 
tone with them, and had referred somewhat more directly to sub- 
mission in matters of Church and State, a subject I always felt to 
have been too much neglected by our late curate, and on which it 
might have been as well if he had received a previous hint as a 
useful topick for his first sermon. But some allowance must be 
made for his natural diffidence, it being known that I and my 
family were in the country, and should be at church. And we 
may hope that more use of his pulpit may bring him out on these 
subjects. On the whole, however, I was so well contented with 
what I heard, that I sent my servant to him, after church, with 
an invitation to dine here ; to mark my approbation of what I had 
heard, and to give him some direction as to the points I think it 
desirable he should lose no time in attending to with the lower 
orders. I was, I confess, a little surprised at his excusing himself 
&om dinner, upon some plea of a sick woman, or something of the 
sort, whom he said he wished to pass the evening with. But he 



166 A jOiRxcKsr ojr ukiyebsal chajuty. 

wrote to me to say, with his respects, that he would take the 
liberty of calling some time in the course of this, Monday's, afit^r- 
noon, in the hope of finding me at home ; when I shall not fail of 
saying what I wish. 

But a word on his sermon. It was on UniTersal Charity. The 
text, from St. Paul, was well enough in its way, and no harm 
whatever in his manner of handling it ; though in some parts, as 
indeed could hardly be avoided, considering the commonplace 
nature of the subject, uninteresting enough. There was one, 
passage, however, which struck me a9 being particularly appli- 
cable to circumstances of no small importance in the present day, 
And therefore judiciously introduced. I mean that in which the 
Apostle so sensibly animadverts upon the vulgar notions of 
charity — that indiscriminate sort of charity, I mean, which only 
spoils those who are the objects of it, and is always sure to be 
abused. '* Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor,*' k>c., 
&c., &c,, '4t availeth me nothing." <* The man,'' said he, '* who 
carelessly flings away from the superfluous stores of his wealth, 
nay more, from even what he may feel to be important to bis own 
comforts, to relieve the more pressing wants of another, and goes 
home rejoicing in the belief that every duty of brotherhood and 
charity has been fulfilled, deceives himself, and perchance it 
availeth him nothing. It may have been but to rid himself of a 
spectacle of wretchedness, which is always irksome and painful 
to behold. And this a well-ordered conscience would tell him is 
not charity. It may have been but to purchase thanks from the 
object of his munificence, or perhaps to win praise and good 
opinions from others — and this availeth even worse than nothing. 
For it manifests, not that he hath the virtue of charity, but the 
vice of ostentation." 

How true this is ! I think the indiscriminate squandering 
of money among persons not really respectable, and calling that 
charity, is a breach of duty which cannot be too strongly inveighed 
against. You know, my worthy friend, the burthens now pressing 
on the land — and, among them, the maintenance of the poor in 
wages or relief is the greatest — and the common people should 
he ^constantly reminded of this. If the pauper submits himself 
cheerfully to the condition in which Providence has been pleased 
to place him, and the labourer is, as the same Apostle says, 
** content with his wages," whatever the amount may be that his 
superiors think fit to give him (I believe, by the by, this is said by 



A SERMON ON UKXYERSAL CHAEITT. 167 

St. Paul of soldiers, but of course is meant to apply equally to 
all under authority) that is enough. 

For my own part, I hare always considered that the truest and 
best Christian charity consists in setting a good example to our 
poor neighbours ; and our curate spoke in his sermon of Example 
as being a part of Charity. And I feel confident you will not be 
of a different opinion from us upon this. For instance, I think it 
right to show good order and management in my household affairs, 
always supporting the station and dignity in my style of living 
^hich befit a man of family and landed property, but never coun* 
ienancing idle expense and display. I make my steward collect my 
hills, and I balance my accounts myself, quarterly. I make it a 
rule also, which I am sure you will feel is right, not to have my 
horses or carriages out on Sundays, in order that my servants may 
not have unnecessary work on that day, except to take myself and 
Lady P. and my family and visitors to church ; and I make it a 
rule on that day to invite the clergyman to dine at the hall, who 
does duty, on a plain dinner, at which, by-the-by, I have always a 
roast sirloin of beef and a plum-pudding, which has never ceased 
to be a custom in my house on Sundays, to mark the difference of 
the day, with seldom any other wines but sherry and port, except 
now and then a bottle of that claret of Crockford's, which I 
*«Mnember you spoke well of. And these things I think it right to 
■do as the prinicipal person in the parish, for an example, which 
may suggest to all others the propriety of doing the like. 

From all this you will perceive that I am well pleased with our 
•curate's first display. I must now conclude, being called away to 
•commit two prisoners; who are here in the constable's charge, noto- 
rious plunderers, one of them detected, last night, poaching in 
the plantations, and the other stealing firewood from a hedge of 
one of my tenants, — ^which is all the more unpardonable because 
the offenders are married men, and each has a family of children, 
with whom they were specially bound to pass the evening by the 
parental fire-side, instead of roaming about for depredation. This 
makes it a duty in me, from which I must not shrink, to deal with 
them summarily and severely. 

I am, my dear sir, always yours truly, 

Habdress Poughlbt. 



168 THE COMING REFORMATIOK. 

Letter IY. — From the Rev. Grislet Skinner, Canon Residentiary op 
y TO THE Ret. Clement Frankly, Curate op Little Easington. 

Dear and Reverend Sir, 

I lose no time in expressing to you my great satisfaction 
at tbe accounts I have received, from more than one quarter, of 
the impression produced in my parish by your sermon of last 
Sunday. Indeed, I am happy to say that Sir Hardress himself 
has written to me in very favourable terms of it. I am sure this 
cannot fail to be a source of high gratification to you ; feeling, as 
I am sure you must, that to obtain the favourable testimony of the 
principal persons in his parish, and the approbation of his superiors 
in the church, must be always the first object for every clergyman 
to keep in mind. Not to mention, what you cannot be insensible 
to, its great importance with a view to further preferment here- 
after. I approve highly of the text and subject which I under- 
stand you chose for your sermon — the beauty and efficacy of 
Christian Charity. Go on and prosper. 

I am, Dear and Reverend sir. 

Yours in all truth and affection, 

Grisley Skinner. 

P.S. It escaped me to mention to you that you will find that the 
quarterly draft for your salary, which you will receive regularly,, 
is not an even sum of ten pounds, owing to the deduction for 
Property Tax. 



THE COMING REFORMATION. 

PART IV. 



" Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new. 
That which they have done hut earnest of the things which they will do/' 

Tennyson, 

My Dear Percy, — In my former letters I have explained what 
seem to me the strong and the weak points of the two great parties 
called Tories and Radicals. They both respond to a real necessity. 
The Tories will always have a great " show of reason," proclaiming, 
as they do, the principles of Order. The Radicals will always find 
an echo in the breast of the masses, proclaiming, as they do, the 



THE COMING REFORMATION. 169 

principles of Progress. But the grand political problem will ever 
remain this : how the two principles of Order and Progress are to 
be united in one doctrine. 

At present, the strength of Toryism lies, as I said, in the fear 
of an undue predominance of the principles of Progress — the fear 
of ill-considered change. The strength of Eadicalism, in like 
manner, lies in the fear of an undue predominance of the principles 
of Order to the exclusion of those of Progress — the fear of a 
Retrogression, or at the best of a stationary inactivity. 

From neither Tories nor Radicals can we expect the desired 
solution. What of the Whigs? On a superficial glance they 
seem to hit the precise point : they take from Toryism its idea of 
Order, and from Radicalism its idea of Progress ; stopping short of 
the excesses of each. Let me quote the eloquent exposition of 
perhaps the greatest of all the* Whigs — Edmund Burke, Speaking 
of our Constitution, he says : " This policy appears to me the result 
of profound reflection; or rather the happy effect of following 
nature, which is wisdom without reflection and above it. A spirit 
of innovation is generally the result of a selfish temper and confined 
views. People will not look forward to posterity, who never look 
backward to their ancestors. . . . Our political system is placed in 
a just correspondence and symmetry with the order of the world, 
and with the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body com- 
posed of transitory parts ; wherein by the disposition of a stupendous 
wisdom moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the 
human race, the whole at one time is never old, nor middle-aged, 
nor young, but in a condition of unchangeable constancy moves on 
through the varied tenour of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and 
progression. Thus by preserving the method of nature, in the 
conduct of the state, in what we improve we are never wholly new ; 
in what we retain we are never wholly obsolete. By adhering in 
this manner and on those principles to our forefathers, we are 
guided, not by the superstitions of antiquarians, but by the spirit 
of philosophic analogy. In this choice of inheritance we have given 
to our frame of polity the image of a relation in blood ; binding up 
the constitution of the country with our dearest domestic ties ; 
adopting our fundamental laws into the bosoms of our family affec- 
tions ; keeping inseparable and cherishing with the warmth of all 
their combined and mutually reflected charities our states, our 
hearths, our sepulchres, and our altars. . . . Always acting as if in 
the presence of canonised forefathers, the Spirit of Freedom, leading 



170 THE COVIKG BEFOBHATIOV. 

in itself to miBrule and excess, is tempered with an awful gravity. 
. . . Those opposed and conflicting interests, which yoa considered 
as so great a blemish in our old and in our present constitution 
interpose a salutary check to all precipitate resolution ; that action 
and counteraction which in the natural and in the political world, 
from the reciprocal struggle of discordant powers, draws out the 
harmony of the uniyerse.". • . 

This is grand writing it must he confessed, and there is more of 
it ; indeed I do not wonder at any one's becoming a conyert to 
Whiggism who studies it in the glorious pages of its greatest 
writer. But, removed from the fascinations of his eloquence, 
Whiggism has a very different aspect. In fact it has almost a 
ludicrous aspect. I am constantly reminded by it of the reply of 
that ingenious youth, who loved to steer between extremes, and 
when asked for his opinion as to the earth's turning round the sun 
or the sun's turning round the earth, said, ** Sometimes one, sir, 
and sometimes the other." In trying to agree with both sides, he 
was thus certain of being in error. This is the case with specu- 
lative Whiggism. It sometimes votes for the Order of the Tories, 
and sometimes for the Progress of the Radicals, not perceiving that 
the two opinions are wholly at variance. The theory of Toryism 
is compact and consistent enough: it says, ** Our Institutions are as 
perfect as human Institutions can be." The theory of Radicalism 
is no less explicit : it says, '^ Our Institutions are effete, are the 
product of a byegone condition of things, and must be cleared away 
at once." Whereupon Whiggism says to the Tories, *' Truly, our 
Institutions are perfect, ergo must be preserved;" to the Radicals, 
*' Assuredly we must advance witji the times, we must allow of 
Progress, ergo our Institutions must be cleared away." As the 
contradiction here would be too glaring, Whiggism modifies it by 
saying that the reforms should be temperate, slow, gradual — the 
destruction should be carried on piecemeal. The whole is expressed 
by an ingenious metaphor : « We must renew the vigour of our con- 
stitution by the infusion of new blood. " Oh, how often have I 
heard some fat-headed politician philosophically utter that metaphor 
(he believing he was uttering a maxim !) how often has it been 
used to setde an argument, and it is still a marvel to me how 
intelligent men can ever have been deluded by so false an analogy. 
Infuse new blood, indeed ! what into a dead carcase ? Is that 
to reanimate the body?. Neither in physiology nor in politics 
can such a phrase be anything but foolish soimds. The old man, 



THE COIOITG BEFOBIIATIOK. 171 

tokimng to bis graye, wiU not hare hare his step made firmer 
liiough the blood of a hundred youths were taken £nom their veins 
aad infused into his body ; nor can the Institutions grown too old 
for the nation, be preserved from decay by the infusion of any new 
ideas. Gothe profoundly says, that everything which falls, deserves 
to fall ; that is the law of weakness. Instead of propping it up, 
you should build something stronger. Ideas which are the life- 
giving fcnrces of society incarnate themselves in Forms or Institu- 
tions ; when these forces are spent, the Forms remain as Formulas, 
aad wise men will exert themselves to get these Formulas cleared 
away, being mere obstructions. It is poor wisdom to endeavour 
to thrust beneath those skeletons a new spirit, hoping thus to re- 
amimate them. Let Forms diflappear, and each Idea clothe itself 
in its ovfn Form. 

Whiggism is a chimera. Seeing that Order and Progress are 
necessary principles, it makes up a patchwork doctrine from 
Toryism and Radicalism : and — glorious logic ! — ^while convinced 
that both these parties are wholly incompetent to regulate society, 
yet its final conclusion is that they should both be applied in com- 
bination ! This is, as I said, out of two errors to make a truth. 

Either society is to remain stationary or it is to advance. 
Whiggism cannot be allowed to say, It shall do both. If it is to 
remain stationary, Toryism is right ; if to advance, then Radicalism 
is right. 

These dilemmas result from the anarchical state of all our 
political opinions. The Whig feels with us that neither Toryism 
Qor Radicalism is right ; and yet not having any principles of his 
own, he is forced to borrow those of the two parties opposing each 
other, and thus out of two absurdities educe a congruity. 

Whiggism is in truth a mere evasion of the difficulty from not 
having any principles. Whigs Mre the temporisers necessary in 
our state of speculative anarchy ; the Unitarians of politics — 
neither Infidels nor Believers. Their great merit is having recog- 
nised the twofold nature of the fundamental problem : the 
necessity for reconciling the two antagonists. Order and Progress. 
But their speculative incapacity is shown in every attempt to 
reconcile these two^ 

. It has been well said by Comte, ^' that the celebrated maxim of 
Thiers : Le roi riffne et ne gouveme past^^ has by its immense and 
rapid success shown how completely extinct is the real spirit of 
monarchy, and that it shows <' the transitory nature of a govern- 



172 THE OOMINQ BErORIfATIOIT, 

ment founded on such an inconsequent policy, which is,' however, 
the exact expression of what now-a-dajs is called the ''constitutional 
spirit." A puppet king, who reigns but does not govern, is 
assuredly a strange spectacle for the political philosopher-^a 
striking example of a Formula subsisting long after its spirit has 
departed ; and an illustration of the << constitutional spirit '' about 
which Whigs talk so much. In this way is ** our glorious Consti- 
tution " to be kept free from the assaults of innovation 1 The 
spirit of monarchy may be dead, but at least we preserve the 
puppet form — the monarch. The spirit of aristocracies may be 
decaying, but at least we will preserve its Formulas, and defend 
the sacred laws of primogeniture and of hereditary legislation. 
The spirit of our Church may be changed, but we at least can 
preserve its Ceremonies, its Bishops, and its Pluralities. And all ^ 
this out of love and deep reverence for our Constitution ! 

Such — on high speculative ground — -are, I believe, the real 
characteristics of Whig^sm. Coming down into the lower and 
turbulent sphere of practice, I know several modifications must be 
suggested : there, many of the Whigs are but undecided Kadi- 
cals. But the grand characteristic may be expressed in a 
sentence : ** The Whigs are Tories in opposition / ** 

Thus, Percy, you see how Toryism, Radicalism, and Whiggism 
— ^the three parties disputing for government — are one and all 
incompetent, and the necessity for a New Party becomes irresisti- 
ble. First let me call your attention to this great fundamental 
fact that Society has gradually undergone a complete change — 
from being Military and consequently Monarchical, it has become 
Industrial and consequently Democratic. 

This change is, as I said, fundamental, and brings with it the 
necessity for Institutions fundamentally different. What an error 
to suppose that Industrial ideas can ever be infused into Military 
Institutions in the guise of young blood ! Who does not see, as 
soon as the real condition of Society is stated, that such an attempt 
is hopeless ? Who therefore can accept the Tory or the Whig 
solution ; or who that still more contradictory solution offered by 
the New Party, which calls itself Young England, the tendency 
of which is to revive in all their vigour Feudal Times ? The 
mere statement of the question is a condemnation of every party 
except the Radical party, and that has no constructive principles. 

The New Party therefore of which I signalise the advent, 
must be something wholly unlike existing parties. Inasmuch a& 



THE COMING REFORMATION. 173 

our Faith in Monarchy is extinct, and our theories of society are, 
at present, weak and vacillating, the New Party must commence 
its existence hy the elahoration of a new Theory of Society 
founded on its Industrial Tendencies. Its Democracy will be 
unlike that of all previous Democracies, because Society itself is 
unlike all previous conditions in the history of mankind. 

The problem being : "To reconcile the two equally necessary 
conditions of Order and Progress : " the first difficulty is to ascer- 
tain our Method. Now the History of Philosophy shows upon 
irresistible evidence that every department of human inquiry 
has exhibited three Methods, entitled by Auguste Comte, ** The 
Theological or supernatural, the Metapkysiccd, and the Positive, ^^ 
In the first, phenomena were explained by the direct agency of a 
God ; in the second, by the agency of some metaphysical abstract 
entity ; in the third, by the operation of natural laws. I cannot 
stop here to prove the truth of this view ; you must seek that in 
the great work of Comte, (Coura de Philosophie Positi'oe), or in 
Mr. Mill's System of Logic, Allow me here, for the sake of my 
argument, to assume the law of evolution therein laid down as 
proved. Allow me further to assume — and no one will deny its 
truth — ^that in the department of physical science the positive 
method is the sole method by which any progress has been made. 
Finding this method uniformly triumphant, and the two other 
methods uniformly incompetent in the sciences, Comte justly 
asserts that it is the only true method, and that it must be 
applied to moral and social questions with the same rigour as to 
scientific questions if any solid result is to be attained. Accord- 
ingly in late years we have seen Morals and Psychology anxiously 
seeking for some positive basis ; History is striving to pass from 
the'rude state of a mere ''chapter of accidents'* to that of a 
science ; and Political Economy has some claims to the name of a 
science. If the laws which regulate human industry, no less than 
the laws which regulate human volition and intelligence can be 
ascertained and reduced to a science, what obstacle is there to 
the ascertainment of the laws of government ? In a word, why 
should there not be a Theory of Society founded on the immutable 
Laws of Human Nature ? — not its difficulty ; for although that 
fs assuredly great, there is nothing in it which lies beyond the 
sphere of our apprehension, like the problems of ontology — ^not 
its complexity ; for although that also is great, we have neverthe- 
less as great a variety of means, so that there is compensation. 



174 THE coMnra refobmatioit. 

To detcriDiiic whether a subject is within the sphere of our inves- 
tigation, we have only to ascertain whether there are sufficient 
factBy and whether these facts are so appreciable by us as to be 
traced to laws^ i. e. to their modes of operation. Now these 
elements of a social science unquestionably exist. It only remains 
for philosophers to detect the grand primary laws of social action^ 
and a]l the secondary laws will soon fall into their proper places, 
and a social science be established. I most earnestly direct your 
attention to Gomte*s work, and to the sixth book of Mill*s Logi^p 
for full satisfaction on this important subject. There you wSl 
find the great outlines sketched, and a dear view of the method by 
which the science will be elaborated. 

In positive science we see the two conditions of Order and Pro- 
gress luminously illustrated ; «for while every encouragement is 
given to fresh discoveries, the new developments only expand, they 
never destroy the old established principles. Thus stability, which 
in metaphysical inquiries has never been possible, because each 
new thinker upsets what his predecessor laid down, is in science 
perfectly compatible with the most unlimited progression. The 
errors which succeeding discoveries dispel, do not, in their fall, 
drag with them what originally was true ; the lether of Newton is 
given up without its affecting in any way the truth of hb law of 
gravitation. In like manner when once liie fundamental laws of 
society are discovered, although fresh developments will constantly 
take place, they will only displace a few errors, they will not i^ake 
the laws. 

I know it is the fashion of random politicians to sneer at 
theories. They are practical men. The great proof of which is 
that they imagine a system of government reposing on no general 
doctrine. They are practical men and hate '' generalities. '' In 
their contempt for generalities they act upon special theories, and 
those bad theories. They are in the condition of manufacturers, 
who making the practical applications of scientific principles in 
their manufactures should imagine that scientific principles were 
all nonsense^ — ^the babble of pedants. Nevertheless, all thinking 
men are aware that special measures not proceeding from a 
general doctrine are the mere experiments of Quacks ; and such 
are all our political measures. So long as political phenomena are 
viewed as accidental or as special, instead of being viewed as the 
necessary and invariable results of social laws, there can be 
nothing but empiricism in government, nothing but anarchy in our 



THE GOMINa REFORMATION. 175 

political conditions. We have gradually eliminated from the phy- 
sical world all personal intervention — all individual caprice. The 
wind blows according to immutable laws ; we have banished the 
caprices of an ^olus : the ocean does not heave and roar in 
obedience to the fluctuating passions of a Neptune : the thunder 
is no longer the offensive weapon of an irritable Jove, it is sim- 
ple electricity. But having thus eliminated from physical science 
all interventions of individual power, we have stiU to eliminate 
them from social science ; we have to learn that masses of men 
are subject to laws as invariable as the laws which regulate the 
motion of the planets* This idea is so contrary to our prejudices 
and all our old opinions that it will be long in gaining ground, but 
it must gain at last. In our domestic circle we are so accustomed 
to appreciate the influence of individual power and caprice, that 
we cannot easily conceive that influence being annulled. Yet 
nothing is more certain than that what is true of the individual is 
not true of the mass ; and if it is necessary to hare a science of 
individual character — ethology — it is no less necessary to have a 
science of society. The laws which regulate masses of men, must 
be sought in history, quite as much as in the physiology of man. 
When people talk, as they so often do, of the accidents which 
determine events, or of the individual caprices and resolutions 
which shaped the course of mighty changes, they assume that there 
are no laws of social action, but that individual will accomplishes 
the whole. This is what Comte calls the Theological Phase of 
science, and is just the sort of explanation given by the ancients, 
when they supposed Neptune was the god of the sea. You con- 
stantly meet with passages plainly asserting that had a certain 
uxdividual done a certain thing « the whole course of the Eevolu- 
tion would have been arrested ; " as if the will of one man could 
arrest a national development ! 

In my last letter I touched upon the anarchical tendency of the 
boasted Freedom of Thought, which cannot mean, as it is now 
interpreted, freedom from the tyranny of Truth. Were once the 
laws which regulate social development scientiflcally elaborated, 
we should no more have the endless and profitless disputes on poli- 
tical topics, than we now have on astronomy. Nevertheless, 
entire liberty, in any rational sense of the word, would be given to 
each man ; but the present infinite divergencies would be ended : 
a full scope for activity would be given ; and the labours of each 
would go towards perfecting the whole. Instead of^ as at present. 



176 TI^E YOUXG MEN OP OUR TIMES. 

all political thinkers being occupied in destcoyiug each other's 
errors, in preventing the dangerous ascendancy of each other's 
principles, and in making timid tentatives as experiments on the 
living body of society, .they would then; though in widely .diffeijent 
paths, all labour for one end, and a steady advance woiUd be the 
result. . r 

Do not suppose I am heralding a Millennium ; do not imagine 
that the social science which I here anticipate will be easy of forma- 
tion. I have no ambition to rank amongst the facile theorists 
who with a dash of the pen throw off a new constitution. I 
candidly confess that I have no conception of what the condition of 
society under the Coming Reformation will be like ; for although I 
pronounce a social doctrine indispensable, I have no social doctrine 
to offer. It is one thing to see a social want, another to relieve 
it. And sciences are not formed in a day. Only metaphysicians 
are impatient. The positive philosopher has learned to wait. I 
content myself, therefore^ with announcing the necessity for a 
.social science, and with announcing that it must be coming, for 
.the state of things unmistakeably shows that. — Ever yours, 

Vivian. 



THE YOUNG MEN OP OUR TIMES. 

Who can describe fairly the times in which we live ? To look 
upon them from one of the numerous points of view that might be 
taken — to study them in one of their many relations to the Future 
— would supply work enough for any writer. The particular point 
of view which we would occupy for a little while is an important 
one. We would consider what effect the present times have upon 
the characters of our young men. We spoke tamely — using the 
wrong article — in calling this point of view an important one : it 
is the only view of the times that will be important at the end of 
some twenty years. Not what buildings are we raising — ^what 
railways are we making — ^but what characters are we forming ? 
That is the question for the Future. 

But such a beginning portends a dry essay on such subjects as 
"moral influences " and ** the constitution of the human mind," 
I shall deal in no such sublime generalities ; but content myself 



THE TOUNa MEN Olf OUB TIMES. 177 

-With making'a'few pen-and-ink sketches of some "Young Men of 
Our Times," with whom I haVe be6n acquainted. The novelists 
have bought up all the glaring characters in the market ; but in 
jtiie obscure shades of society we may find some subjects which 
ynll hare an interest for us, if we look more at the inward history 
of the mind than at the outward garb of incidents. Come fo)'th 
•from the shades, then, my old friend, Peter Penderton, and let 
me present fhee to the public as a specimen of 

The Usheb. 

Poor Peter was doomed to the career of an usher in a boarding 
school, by the coincidence of his father's failure in business, and 
his own progress in Latin. All his class-mates saw that he would 
never rise in life when he rose to the top of the class, and stood 
there steadily for more than a year. He was too deep in Virgil 
'ever to become a great sea-captain, or soldier, or traveller. We 
pitied him : he was a doomed schoolmaster. We saw his destiny 
coming upon him : he was appointed as a monitor over the lowest 
class, before I left Mr. Stephens's academy. His appearance con- 
tributed to his misfortune. When sixteen years old, he had 
attained his full height of ^ye feet eight, and wore a grave, long 
countenance. No wonder ; he had read through the Satires of 
Horace, Cicero's Offices and Orations, and a great part of Hero- 
dotus, before he was fourteen ! 

He returned from school to his poverty-stricken parents, who 
regarded his learning with admiration and hopefulness. 

" You have in your head what is better than a fortune, Peter," 
said old Penderton — ** no man can take it from you. See — ^your 
governor, Mr. Stephens, rose from nothing ! You may rise — ^you 
vnll rise ! " 

Mr. Penderton had not studied the theory, that for every man 
who rises to something, th^e must be many who go down to 
nothing. •• 

Peter had done growing in height before he left school ; but 
his figare was only an outline — thin, pale, classical. The nose 
was precocious,^ and the cheeks required some filling up to soften 
the abruptness of the prominence. This fiUing-up was expensive. 
In other words, Peter had a prodigious appetite, his mother kept 
a scanty table, and the doomed usher sometimes looked ready to 
begin again at the conclusion of dinner. 

The prospects of the pantry led to serious consultation. 

NO. XXXII. — VOL. VI. N 



178 THE TOUKO MBN OF OUR TIMES. 

Hr. and Mrs. Fenderton lay awake talking all one nigbt. The next 
day young Peter wrote a letter to Mr. Stephens, of Beechrale 
Academy, and, in the course of a fortnight, Peter took the third 
desk, and was installed as the junior usher, with a salary of 10/. 
per annum. We pass oyer his first year of ushership with few 
remarks. He bad a difficult place in some respects : if familiar 
with the boys, be offended the governor ; and if too stiff and re- 
served, he fell under the ridicule of the boys who had been his 
fellow-pupils. Next to Cornelius Nepos, he had to study his 
dress, which was becoming rery threadbare and scanty. Hi^ 
trousers, in particular, were some four inches short of the fashion. 
To remedy this defect, he had recourse to very long straps, which 
were a novelty in that day, at least at Beechvale. For the pre- 
servation of these appendages, he wore them inside his shoes, and 
was so frequently busy in arranging them to various degrees of 
tightness, that he gained from the boys the cognomen of ** Old 
Straps." The governor, hearing of this, issued an order that any 
boy who applied to Mr. Penderton the title of '* Old Straps** 
shoidd be fined to the amount of sixpence. 

After two years of ** Propria quce marihis,*' and Nepos, Mr. 
Penderton longed for a new suit, including trousers that would 
not require such tight strapping. Accordingly, he suggested to 
Mr. Stephens the possibility of an advance of salary. The gover- 
nor admitted the possibility ; but added, that it was ** remote.'* 
He might, in the course of two or three years, have an opening 
for Mr. P. as second master, with a salary of 201, per annum. 
Meanwhile, Mr. P. might, perhaps, gain some further experience 
by a change of situation. So Peter left Beechvale a second time, 
carrying away ten shillings and good testimonials. Mr. Stephens 
advertised " A desirable situation," " Facilities of improvement," 
*' The advantages of home," <fec., and received in one week exactly 
149 applications, from young men determined to " devote " their 
"whole talents to the interests of the academy." 

Strange to tell, Peter did not leave Beechvale without regret. 
He even shed some tears, as he confessed to me ; for the usher 
had feelings. It is odd, and sounds more like a novel than a fact : 
but, contrary to the rule of advertisements, Beechvale was a plea- 
sant place, in reality as well as in the newspaper ; there was a 
very pretty valley, with beautiful beeches, and a shallow river flow- 
ing among them. There Peter had walked, reading or indulging 
the vague musings of youth, on many sunamer evenings. And 



THE TOUNa MEN OF OUR TIMES. 179 

tbere was Bomething more that would not allow Peter to go away 
^th. a light heart. There was a pretty Lydia Stephens at Beech- 
vale, a girl whose growth Peter had watched from year to year— 
the only person there who had ever suggested a lively thought to 
the usher, or called up a smile to his long, grave countenance. 
Peter rememhered her sparkling, black eyes ; they interposed 
themselves between him and Horace. 

In " keeping up his Gretk," as he ealled it, by a daily reading 
of eighty lines in the Iliad, he frequently found he had been 
cheated out of forty hexameters by a recollection of Lydia. Any 
passage in any classic — "blue-eyed Minerva," or "ox-eyed Juno," — 
anything that mentioned "eyes'* — would call up the image of one 
fatal to classical acquirements. Peter felt that this weakness 
would hinder his preparation for a better situation ; aod therefore, 
he wrote very distinctly a " nota bene '* in his book of memoranda, 
as follows : — " To read daily eighty lines of Homer, and not to 
think any more of L. S.'* How this memorandum served its 
purpose I cannot say. Peter remained at home for some weeks ; 
but not without making many applications for employment. 

During this time, he found out the nature of his destiny, from 
which he vainly attempted to flee. He inquired after impossible 
situations, such as " Secretary to a nobleman or gentleman," 
"Amanuensis for an author," &c. ; but the replies to his queries 
only impressed on his mind the truth, that an usher must remain 
an usher for life. In addition to the Iliad, he amused his leisure 
by making some little progress on the flute, as he found that 
nothing soothed his recollections of Lydia so well as certain easy 
variations on " Away with Melancholy." His chief employment 
was in writing letters and waiting for answers. 

At length one of his applications received attention from a 
clergyman who kept a select boarding school. The Rev. Thomas 
Pay well wrote to Peter as follows: — "Your salary will be 20/. 
per annum. I trust your mind is made up with regard to the dif- 
ferences of opinion now unhappily prevalent in our holy mother 
church, as I am very particular in attention to the theological 
views of my pupils." There — that is enough of Mr. Paywell's 
letter. Let it be understood that we mean no satire on the 
clergy ; but if there are among, them any who profit by Mr. P.'s 
system, let them be exposed as fairly as if they were vulgar men 
without bands. The Rev. Thomas Paywell had a vicarage of 
200^. a year. He also received a select number of pupils-^ 

n2 



180 THE TOUNO KEN OF OUR TIMES. 

generally about twenty— each paying 40Z. or 60?. per annum, and for 
their instruction he paid an usher the munificent salary offered to 
our friend Peter ! In this situation the usher remained two years 
— ^two long monotonous years, only to he imagined by one who 
has risen, day after day, to hear the everlasting Latin grammar, 
and has dreamed, night after night, of the most vexing blunders 
in syntax committed by the incorrigible dunce to be found in every 
establishment, however select. Sometimes, however, Peter was 
visited by thoughts and dreams more pleasing. He remembered 
Beechvale and Lydia, and allowed his mind to indulge in the 
remembrance, without asking himself if he had any serious attach- 
ment to the spot so frequently presenting itself to his memory. 
. He was very clear in his notions on Virgil ; but with regard to hrs 
own emotions Peter might have taken lessons from any reader of 
. a circulating library. At the end of these two years, the usher 
was again seized with his former unreasonable notion of an 
increased salary. He modestly suggested the idea to Mr. P., who 
.was by no means surprised. Oh, no ! he knew it was only a form 
of monomania common among ushers and other dependents. 

** Sir," said he, " you arCy as you remind me, older than when 

■ I first saw you. It is just possible that you may obtain elsewhere 

a salary higher than your present one. For my part, I know 

> young men are to be had by scores ; and it is a fixed principle in 

this academy that the usher shall receive 20/. per annum. From 

that principle, sir, I shall not deviate." 

Peter would not give up his unhappy monomania about an 
increase of salary ; so he said good-bye to Mr. Paywell. After 
setthng the accounts of his bookseller, his tailor, and his shoe-maker, 
he mounted the coach-box with exactly two pounds more in his 
.pocket than he had when he left Mr. Stephens. " This is rising 
in life,*' said Peter to himself, "but slowly — ^very slowly ;** and 
then he diverted his thoughts from all cares about the coin of the 
realm, by reading his pocket copy of Horace. 

Peter's great affliction under Mr. Paywell had not arisen from a 
want of money, but from exclusion from society. Of course ht> 
could not. mingle with any low society, for he was an usher in a 
very respectable school ; nor could he have any footing in genteel 
society, for mothers whispered to their daughters ; '* He is only Mr. 
Pay weirs young man — the usher." Thus he was sentenced to 
feel himself out of place whenever he left the school-room. This 
was the privation of which he complained most frequently in his 



THE YOUNG MEN OP OUR TIMES, 181 

letters to me, And^ because it is a hardship founded on the pre- 
judices of society, and not in any necessity of life, let us try to 
abolish it. 

He had not been a fortnight at home, when, obeying the first 
sugigestion that offered itself, he wrote to Mr. Stephens. There was 
something at Beechvale — Peter could not say what — that made a 
salary of 201, there worth more than the same siim elsewhere. The 
application was luckily timed, for the second master at Beechvale 
Academy had just left his place, having suffered from an attack of 
the prevalent disease — a discontent with his salary. The governor 
had a favourable opinion of our friend's character and acquirements, 
and at once accepted his offer. 

. There will be something ridiculous,' perhaps, in connecting any- 
thing sentimental with the common-place career of an usher ; but 
we must state facts as they occurred : so let us be pardoned if our 
style here makes a transition into the romantic. Why should not 
sentimental readers, who have wept over the sorrows of lords and 
knights, and jnysterious gipseys, spare a little sympathy for Peter? 

It was a beautiful evening, at the close of the midsummer holi- 
days, when our friend walked up the pretty valley to which. Mr. 
Stephens had given a name. It was not without excitement that 
Peter caught a glimpse of the trim holly-hedge around the garden 
belonging to the school. He stayed to look at his initials carved 
on one of the beeches during his boyhood. He saw the old apple 
tree — he had once assisted Lydia in gathering its fruit. He 
really felt a fluttering of the heart as he laid his hand on the 
garden-gate ; but he endeavoiired to subdue his emotion by the 
sobering thought — " I am come here to teach boys Latin for 
twenty pounds a year ! What have I to do with romantic senti- 
ments ? " This consideration, however, would not serve its pur- 
pose. He opened the gate and looked into the garden. The 
trees were bending their fruit-laden boughs over the flowers, and 
on the little grass-plot stood Lydia, surrounded with roses, and 
more beautiful than all Peter*s dreams had pictured her. The 
u;5her felt like one who had intruded into Paradise, and feared 
that some angel would drive him out ; but ' Lydia welcomed him 
v^^ry kindly, and led him in to the refreshment of the tea-table. 

That night our friend lulled himself to sleep with this medita- 
tion : — " Really there are some very beautiful and desirable places 
in this world. There are joys — even for an usher.*' 

I was the junior teacher under Peter, and we were very good 



182 THE YOUNG MEN OF OVR TDCBS. 

friends. He was a zealous tutor, and gave all possible satisfiaiC* 
tion to the governor. There was an animation and spirit in his 
appearance and conduct, which I had never noticed during his 
school-boy days. He solaced his leisure with practice on the flute, 
and tempted me to follow his example ; so that in the course of a 
few months, we had the satisfaction of getting through " In my 
Cottage near a Wood," in two parts. Peter even succeeded so well 
that he sometimes accompanied Miss Stephens's piano-forte. On 
these occasions he was higldy excited, but he explained it by 
saying that he was ''passionately fond of music.'* This seemed 
strong language for an usher, and I began to wonder at the change 
in my friend's character. He was positively romantic, and played 
the flute on moonlight nights in the garden as late as ten o'clock! 
He fulfilled his duties, however, so well during the day, that the 
governw was willing to allow this nocturnal eccentricity, and Lydia 
praised the taste of the serenader. But I was more surprised than 
ever when Peter confessed to me, as we walked one evening by 
the side of the river, that he sometimes wrote verses. The con- 
tents of one little song which he read to me were quite startling — 
it was a confession of love ! " Have you got to that ? ".said I. 
** Why not ? " said Peter ; " but it is only poetry — imaginary — all 
imaginary." Soon after, I began to And some traces of reality in 
Peter's verses — ^his heroine always had fine black eyes, though he- 
called her Lucy instead of Lydia. " Peter ! " said I, "take care ! " 
** I know I am an usher," said he, " but my fancy may be allowed 
to wander a little in my verses." "Ay, but your fancy never 
wanders," said I. 

At Christmas Miss Stephens went away for a long visit to some 
relatives in a distant part of the country. Peter's Muse now 
became very melancholy, and my suspicions were confirmed. One 
of his sonnets actually concluded with a hint that the poet might 
be found some morning drowned in the river. He began now to 
talk of going to America. 

Toward the close of spring our young lady returned, and I 
expected to find more cheerfulness in Peter's conversation ; but,, 
for several days after her arrival, he was reserved — almost silent. 
I feared that the prediction of the sonnet mentioned above was^ 
about to be realised. After a week's moping, Peter confessed to 
me his secret — he had written a letter of proposals to Mi8& 
Stephens. Two days he had waited in anxiety ; but Lydia 
returned no answer, and then Peter had addressed the governor^ 



THE TOUNO MEN OF OUR TIMES. 183 

very humblj begging permission, &c. Mh Stephens replied as 
follows : — *' I need not assure you that your letter gave me great 
surprise. I am totally at a loss to reo<Micile its purport with the 
views I have hitherto entertained of your character as a man of 
modesty and good sense. You must fully understand that you 
have no prospects in life to warrant your dreaming for a moment 
of the responsibilities of a wife and a family. To set your mind 
fully at rest on the subject, I can assure you that my flaughter is 
engaged, and will be married in the course of a few weeks. Let me 
pray you, as you value your own peace of mind and welfare, to di&> 
miss at once all notions unsuitable to your position. Remember, my 
dear sir, you are an usher ; and in that important, though obscure 
office, I am sure you have talents that will make you respectable 
and useful. After all, I would endeavour to look at the matter in 
the most favourable light, remembering — to alter Seneca's adage 
a little— amor « hrevis insania est* It will be convenient to me 
that you should stay in your present place until midsummer, and 
I have no doubt your good sense will lead you to make your 
remaining time here agreeable to aU parties. With the best 
wishes for your welfare," &c. Such was Peter's confusion when 
he read this reproof, that he forgot how to conjugate '* jW)5St«m," 
while hearing a grammar-class. 

" It seems then," said Peter, as we walked by the river, " that 
love, like aU other things, is to be purely a matter of money V* 

*' To be sure," said I. " Does that feet dawn upon you no^ 
for the first time ?*' 

** Then if we have no money, we are not wanted in this part of 
ihe world," said Peter. 

" Certainly not,'* said I ; " it is a very great favour that we 
are allowed to exist. How dare you complain ? You have twenty 
pounds a year." 

** My parents may not live long," said Peter. " If they did 
not detain me, I would go to America, buy an axe, and fell 
timber. I might find a sociable bear in the back-woods." 

In a few weeks we had the happiness of seeing Lydia whirled 
away to be married, while all the boys were sucking oranges. 
Soon afterwards Peter received excellent testimonials from the 
governor, and said farewell to Beech vale. 

His career after this, though too quiet to make a story, was 
more honourable than felling trees in the Canadian woods. It 
required a virtue greater than even industry — ^patience — long- 



184 THE TOUKG MSK OF OUR TIMES. 

enduring patience. He gained a situation as a private tutor, in. 
the family of a gentleman, who paid a salary which enabled the 
uglier to amend the circumstances of his declining parents. For 
them he lived and worked, buried far away from the world in a 
little village. His father died, and then for two years Peter sup- 
ported his mother, who had lodgings in a neighbouring hamlet. 
There was something affecting in the circumstances of her death; 
She had b4en a very industrious wife, and up to the last month of 
her. life . she persisted in plying her needle, making shirts and 
other articles for sale ; though Peter often argued against such 
over-strained industry.' "I have good eyesight,** she replied, 
** and I could npt put away my time without my needle.'* 

One evening Peter was called to attend on his mother, who had 
been ill for some weeks, and was suddenly seized with fatal 
symptoms. The son hastened across the moor to the hamlet, 
taking with him all his money to procure the best medical advice. 
When he entered the cottage his mother was dying and almost 
speechless. She clasped her hands together with delight, as she 
caught a glimpse of his face through the mist of death gathering 
over her eyes. Then she pointed, with hurried movements, to a 
little drawer in her table — " There!'* she gasped — "there! — 
it is all for my Peter ! — I thought — the poor boy would need it ;'* 
and so saying, she died in the arms of her son. 

The landlady opened the drawer and found, carefully hidden in 
^ comer, a paper packet addressed — " To my dear, dutiful son, 
Peter." It contained a little more than two pounds in silver^- 
the secret profits earned by the mother's needle. 

A few months after his mother's death Peter embarked for 
America. I received a letter from him a short time since — ^he is 
still, only an usher. . 

What is the purpose of a sketch like this ? I could have made 
it more amusing by throwing some fictitious incidents into it ; but 
the bare facts will serve for a moral. Do I propose a scheme for 
opening the way to fortune to all ushers and other young men, 
condemned for life to hold subordinate situations ? No : the 
majority of mankind must always be poor. Wealth is only a 
luxurious disease — a plethora — never likely to spread very widely. 
We must all be slaves of the pocket ; but we need not be slaves 
in soul. Among the consequences of our grand distinction between 
the rich and the poor some are real and unavoidable ; but others 
are fictitious, and must be swept away. Let riches enjoy their 



NEW BOOKS. 185 

p];q>er priyileges. The rich man must have his tour, his wine- 
cellar, his turtle, game, hothouse fruits, and hox at the Opera ; 
and the poor man must enjoy his laugh at all such trifles. But 
let us not allow the aristocracy of pounds, shillings and pence in 
the intellectual worid. The only true solace of life, for the 
greater number of men, must be social and intellectual. Let 
intellectual tastes and sympathies be the bonds of sociality ; let 
the prejudices of caste be scouted, and the pretensions of cash be 
sent to their proper place — ^the counting-house ; and then such a 
member of society as the usher, though condemned to poverty, 
will not be shut up m solitude and total obscurity. By such 
reasonable means, the usher might spend a happier life, even 
without an advanced salary. We do not expect to abolish either 
wealth or poverty ; but God grant us a speedy riddance from the 
absurd prejudices connected with them ! 

J. GOSTICK. 



Neto 18ooft0» 



The Pbotectob. A Vindication. By J. H. Merle D'Aubigne^ D. D. 8vo. 

Edinburgh : Oliver and Boyd. 

However often recited, the stoiy of Charles and Cromwell must 
always- interest. It is true, that every cultivated Englishman is ac- 
quainted with almost each day's occurrences from the blusterous ^2nd 
of August, 1642, to the bitter 31st of January, 1649. But yet it can 
be reiterated, and be reproduced, and re-abridged, to suit each author's 
particular view, without wearying the reader. We were not sorry, 
therefore, to see Merle D'Aubigne's volume, although we did not expect 
from a foreigner any new elucidation either of fact or comment. Dr. 
D*Aubigne, or (as he particularly requests it may be expressed), Dr. 
Merle D'Aubigne had gained in this country, and indeed throughout 
the Protestant world, popularity for his " History of the Reformation." 
This we think was bestowed upon him more on account of his fervency 
as a theologian, than his powers as an historian ; although it must be 
conceded that he has a certain picturesqueness and vigour of style, that 
secure the attention of those who think more of mode than matter. 
Writing impulsively from an energetic faith, he bestows a glow on his 
pages, that intellectually he might not have been able to give them. He 
has become the champion of what are termed evangelical principles ; 
that is, the Calvinistic side of Protestanism, and has thus won a large 



186 NBW BOOXB. 

public to himself* Of his sincerity and his ability, there can be no 
doubts ; bnt stiU a fervent theology may not be the best training for an 
impartial historian. 

Dr. Merle D'Aubigne has been impelled by the course of his studies 
to see that our civil war, as it is termed, was truly a religious one. 
And that, therefore, the characters of the leaders in some degree affect 
the validity of the arguments that support each party. The high church 
writers made their leader not only a good and great man, but a saint 
and a martyr. He thinks that the same should be done for the dissenting 
party; and Cromwell should be enshrined, at least in histoiy, also as a 
saint. It is certainly true^ that immediately after the Restoration 
every writer who sought popularity, did so by heaping every possible 
opprobium on the leaders of the defeated party. Tne reaction had 
every possible aid, in the wit as well as in the profligacy of those who 
ultimately regained the public ear. Nor have the dissenters, at least 
that particular portion of them to which the Gromwellians belonged, 
ever been in a situation to command the suffrages or enthusiasm of the 
people at large.' The Church of £ngland alone, even in the temporary 
reaction of 1688, held the position to influence public opinion. It is, 
therefore, astonishing that even so much justice has been awarded to 
Cromwell, imperfect as it may have been, and it is of itself a sufficing 
proof of the intense energy and power of his nature and spirit. 

We think, however, that Mr. Carlyle's able and comprehensive 
volumes were a sufficient record wherein to come to a conclusion as to 
the individual, and that there was little occasion at all, and still less 
from the mode in which it is performed, for this set and partial vindi- 
cation. The Doctor has, indeed, felt somewhat of this himself, as he 
tells us that he originally only designed to pen a review, but that as the 
subject swelled under him, it grew into a volume. Doubtless, as what- 
ever: he writes has a universal sale, there were not wanting stimulants 
of all kinds to induce him to make it a substantive work. 

Giving full credit, as we do, to the Docter, for an earnest and sincere 
faith in all he utters, we can hardly blame him for this vindication not 
being more artfully made. We must take it as the expression of a 
belief rather than a subtle exercise of logical power. It has not been 
performed as a thesis but uttered as a conviction. But although we 
think Dr. Merle D'Aubigne himself honest in his intentions, we do not 
think it fairly executed. The very truth of his zeal has warped his 
sense of justice, and disturbed the precision of his reasoning. All 
through tne Vindication he assumes the very matter in dispute, pro- 
ducing Cromwell's own assertions as proofs of his sincerity. There 
never was any doubt as to the documents, and almost as little as to 
the fervency and fanaticism of Cromwell's character. The question is 
still open, in spite of this Vindication, and must probably remain 
doubtful until tnat day when the secrets of all hearts will be de- 
clared, of the amount of duplicity he used to the furtherance of the 



NBW BOOXfl. 187- 

great deeds he was engaged in. To bring forward his own letters and 
assertions in proof of their sincerity, is of no avail. That he thought 
deceit sometimes necessaiy could be proved from his own "svritings. 
That the religious expression of the time had become a manner and 
mode, there is also no doubt : and as little that the intriguing spirit 
of war and contest had also bred a laxity in the use of the most solemn 
words. 

If, however, this volume settles nothing, it is worthy of perusal as a 
rapid and clear narrative of the important events ; and ^so as con- 
taining the opinions of one able from his earnestness and his pursuits to 
throw out new ideas. It has also the merit of being written with an 
enlightened Christian feeling; deploring the shedding of blood, 
whether on the scaffold or the field ; though his vindication of Crom- 
well's merciless campaign in Ireland is hardly in accordance with his 
otherwise mild pleadings. His enthusiasm kindles with his theme, 
and ends in a climax of laudation that we cannot think deserved. That 
Cromwell had ideas beyond even the rule of these kingdoms can easily 
be believed, and his patronage of the Waldenses might foreshadow his 
championship of the universal Protestant cause. Had his life con- 
tinued, or had he been younger, doubtless his energetic spirit would 
have manifested itself even in a more universal field than Marston 
Moor or Worcester Close. Indeed this point of his proceedings and 
character it is that makes him so popular at Geneva. We cannot give 
a better specimen of the style of the work, than in the following 
extract on this subject, and with it we shall conclude our necessarily 
too brief notice of a book rendered important by the position of its 
autlior, and his extensive popularity : — 

CBOHWELL THE TRUE DEFENDEB OF THE FAITH. 

'^ Oliver carried into practice in the seventeenth century that famous motto 
which was the glory of one of the greatest Englishmen of the nineteenth— 
' Civil and religious liberty in ail the world.' Practice, in our opinion, is much 
better than theory ; but the example set by the Protector, which had no pre- 
cedent, has unfortunately met with no imitation, the French Protestants were 
abandoned, both at the peace of Ryswick in 1697, and again at that of Utrecht 
in 1713, although hundreds of Huguenots were perishing in dungeons or 
groaning on bos^ the galleys. If Cromwell's spirit had continued to govern 
England, the revocation of the Edict of Nantes would never have taken place. 
May we be permitted to pay a feeble tribute of esteem to the great man who 
was the protector of our ancestors, and who would have been the vindicator 
of Protestant France if he had lived, or if he had survived in successors worthy 
of him .^ 

'* His attachm^at to the great cause of evangelical Protestantism extended 
over all Europe. In Switzerland, for instance, he endeavoured to arouse and 
reanimate the interests of the Reformation. ^ You stand so much in awe of 
your popish neighbours,' said his minister in May 1655, to the evangelical 
Swiss, ' that you dare not budge a foot in favour of any Protestant churchy 



188 NEW BOOKS. 

lest the popish cantons should fall npon yon. If Geneva should need yon, the 
greater number among you would answer. We cannot for want of money ! 
We dare not, for fear of our popish neighbours ! ' 

<' Cromwell, knowing at the same time that the Romish cantons were 
strongly supported by the princes of their faith ordered his minister (22nd 
February, 1656) to assist the evangelical cantons to make a good and honour- 
able peace, and to that end to counterbalance by his endeavours the inter- 
position of the public minister of other princes, who maybe partial to the 
popish cantons. 

- ^' He interposed also in Germany in defence of the religious Uberty of the 
reformed states. In a Latin letter from a very considerable person, which 
was forwarded to Cromwell in January, 1655, we read : ' The whole popish 
cohort is plotting against us and ours. We must consider and inquire into 
everything with prudence. We must deliberate on the means to be employed 
for our common preservation ; for we know the aim of all our B&byloniau 
adversaries. The Lord of Hosts be the Protector of the Protector and of the 
Church.' This writer added : ' The persecution continues in Austria and in 
Bohemia, and it is very easy to foresee a general league of the Papists against 
the Protestants of Germany and Switzerland.' 

^' Against this, Oliver made provision. If he could not reach them with the 
arm of his power, he sent them proofs at least of his sympathy. Collections 
were made by his order in behalf of the persecuted Protestants of Bohemia ; 
and again, in 1657, when delegates from the Polish and Silesian Protestants 
arrived in England complaining of the persecutions directed against them, 
public subscriptions were immediately opened in their favour throughout the 
whole country. 

« Desirous of giving regularity to all these movements, Cromwell conceived 
the idea of a great institution in favour of the evangelical faith. He proposed 
to unite all the various members of the Protestant body, and by this means 
place them in a condition to resist Rome, which was at that time preparing 
for conquest. To this end he resolved to found a council for the General 
Interests of Protestantism, and he was probably led to this idea by the esta- 
blishment of the Roman congregation for the propagation of the faith. He 
divided tiie Protestant world out of England into four provinces : the first 
included France, Switzerland, and the Piedmontese valleys ; the second com* 
prised the Palatinate and other Calvinistic coimtries; the third, the remiunder 
of Germany, the north of Europe, and Turkey; the colonies of the East and 
West Indies (Asia aiftd America) formed the fourth. The council was to 
consist of seven members and four secretaries, who were to keep up a corre- 
spondence with all the world, and inquire into the state of religion every- 
where, to the intent that England might suitably direct her encouragement, 
her protection, and her support. The yearly sum of j^ 10,000, with extra- 
ordinary supplies in case of need, was to be placed at the disposal of the 
council, whose sittings were to be held in Chelsea College. 

" No doubt many objections might be urged against this plan. It was, 
perhaps, to be feared that, in certain cases, such diplomatic interposition 
might injure the spiritual character and true life of the reformed religion. 
But Cromwell's chief object was to maintain religious liberty in all the 
world, as he was maintaining it in England. It is right that the Protestants 
on the Continent should know what a friend they had in the illustrious Pro- 



NEW BOOKS. 189 

tector. A Catholic historian, one of those who have perhaps the least appre- 
ciated his christian character, cannot here repress a movement of admiration. 
'When we think of the combats of the Protestant religion against the 
Catholic faith/ says M. Villemain, ' it was undoubtedly a noble and a mighty 
thought to claim for himself the protection of all the dissident sects, and to 
regulate, in a fixed and durable manner, the support which England had 
granted them on more than one occa^on. If it had not been interrupted by 
death, Cromwell would no doubt have resumed a design so much in accord- 
ance with his genius, and which his power would have allowed him to attempt 
with courage.' 

^ Such was the Protector's activity. In every place he showed himself 
the true Samaritan, binding up the wounds of those who had fallen into ^e 
hands of the wicked, and pouring in oil and wine. ... He is the greatest 
Protestant that has lived since the days of Calvin and Luther. More than 
any other sovereign of England, he deserved the glorious title of Defender 
OF THE Faith." 



The Proti^ge. By Mrs. Ponsonbt. 3 vols, post 8vo. H. Hurst. 

Grantlet Manor. A Tale.; By Ladt GEORaiANA Fullbrton. 3 vols. post 
8vo. £^ Moxon. 

Russell. By G. P. R. James. 3 vols, post 8vo. Smith, Elder, & Co. 

There are so many temptations to novel writing, that it is not sur- 
prising so many attempt it. If a fervid fancy or an overwhelming 
sensibility afflicts an educated individual, a relief is afforded by giving 
vent to his irrestrainable fancies or feelings in the three volumes of the 
fashionable novel. If a creed is to be defended, or a law attacked, it 
affords an admirable means of indirectly advocating or attacking ; and, 
worst decadence of all, if a new theory, or even mercantile speculation, 
requires puffing and pushing, this mightiest literary invention of modem 
times is used for it. It is therefore not wonderful that although no 
particular calling to the occupation is manifested at present, that an 
equal number are yet daily issued. That the number of readers 
decline, we believe ; but, with the unphilosophical producers of novels, 
this is of no effect, for they disdain to proportion their supplies in 
any accordance to the demand. 

The three works we have selected for especial notice have all a 
different character, though they all partake of the same style of 
execution. 

The " Protege " is intended to be a novel of character, as the story has 
but little involvement in it, and no ingenuity of construction. The 
characters are numerous, and tolerably diversifiedj but have no dis- 
tinguishing traits of excellence. They are drawn without any gross 
.violations of common sense or probability, but betoken some of that 
original power of observation which is necessary to the delineation of 
new phases and combinations of human characteristics. In fact, they 



190 NEW BOOKS. 

are on a level with all common efforts at character, pourtraying at the 
best bnt the operation of a passion or an appetite indulged into a 
hamour or eccentricity. Of the complication of human motives, and 
the diversity of human conduct, there are no examples. The chief 
personages are a calm duke and duchess, a wilful heir-apparent, a 
sincere but fanatical parson, and an opposite, in a worldly, coarse, 
selfish specimen of the same profession. The intended hero, the Pro- 
teg^, is described as one of those persevering, self-denying, lofty senti- 
mental gentlemen that lady-writers love to exhaust their fancies upon, 
but who, in real . life, are very seldom found in so high a state of 
preservation. The heroine — if there reallj^ be any heroine — is a very 
nigh-bom beauty, in whom the pride of high birth overcomes any of 
the more tender and feminine feelings, and who is so penetrated (and 
the authoress seems to delight in the notion) with the superlative 

Position conveyed by a long genealogy and rauK, that she looks upon 
erself as a sort of trustee — a mere casket — to perpetuate, from genera- 
tion to generation, this something-nothing, that like an aroma pervades 
her existence. That such notions are prevalent, we admit, as it cannot 
be denied lunatics have had similar unreasonable fancies, but that it 
should be considered as a pleasing or valuable trait of character, by 
persons not supposed to be gifted in the same way, does appear to us 
absurd. 

The book is made up wil^ the description of these and numerous 
otb^er characters, and with disquisitions on politics, morals, religion, 
and philosophy in general ; but we cannot find in these, any more than 
in the delineation of the characters, anything denoting peculiar sagar 
city of observation, or powers of reflection. There is indeed a want of 
decision and purpose running through it, which somewhat obscures 
one's notions of the authoress's ideas on the very subject on which she 
dissertates. One very amiable lady, anxious to love and be loved, is 
represented in no very favourable lig)it, and is reproved even for loving 
her own child. 

"Grantley Manor" is also by a lady ; but is more ambitious in its aim. 
Its great effort is to delineate individual character, and almost every 
one introduced is an eccentric. There is nothing vague in the attempt 
to pourtray the various individuals, although we cannot think it suc- 
cessful. The greatest effort is lavished upon a young lady who is 
intended to be gay, joyous, confiding, and high-minded, though some- 
what wilful. But her own utterances and conduct by no means agree 
with the descriptions lavished upon. Her gaiety often descends to 
mere flippancy, and in avoiding common-place speeches she frequently 
drops into pert and vulgar conduct. In contradistinction to her, we 
have a lady with superhuman forbearance : a half-Italian, gifted with 
the faculty divine ; a wonderful musician and improvisatrice ; who, 
involved in a secret marriage with a Protestant, is torn in pieces by a 
sentimental contest between her religion and her affections. To draw 



JsrSW BOQKS^ 191 

comimm combinations of character^ is given to veiy few, but to still 
fewer is it meted to give, with the effect of reality, the eccentrics of 
the race. We do not think Lady Fullerton has succeeded. She has 
indeed mixed, in an extraordinary mode, contradictory qualities, bat 
we cannot acKnowledge their truth nor semblance to anything really 
human. There is also, in the literary style of the book, a continuous 
effort to be plain and simple, engendered by an apparent horror at 
falling into the usual style of such works, that being unsuccessful, 
only looks and reads like affectation. This is ^i error that well-bred 
and well-educated persons are apt to fall into, from a notion that 
it gives an air of nature to their writing ; but the perception of a reader 
of common intelligence can by no means be juggled in this manner. 
As an instance of what we have specified, we refer the reader to the 
conversation supposed to take place at the house of " a lawyer of great 
reputation, much frequented by old judges and young barristers : *' a 
mixture, by the way, not very likely to occur. Whether a barrister of 
high standing and attainments, is likely, in a mixed assembly of ladies 
and gentlemen, to ask, as a matter of sprightliness, " What did he do 
with his wife then — lurked her somewhere or gagged her ? " or to say, 
" How he must have bullied his wife to keep her quiet" This mode of 
expression, although certainly not high flown as in the usual novel, is 
equally assuredly not " natural," which is the only reason, we presume, 
of its introduction. The authoreas herself gives proof of high cultiva- 
tion and having adequate notions of true refinement, and falls into 
these absurdities and misrepresentations entirely from a desire to be 
true, although she is evidently unacquainted with the manners she 
pretends to delineate. 

The sentimental prevails in both these novels, and the h3rper-cultiva- 
tion of the feelings leads the authoresses of such works to dwell upon 
and exaggerate any emotion and thought, until the soul is subdued by a 
perpetual succession of trivial emotions, begotten by the undue stimu- 
lants perpetually applied to the expectations and fears of the morbid 
idlers indulging in thenL " Grantley Manor" has many indirect pleadings 
for the Roman Catholic persuasion, though it has nothing bigoted in its 
advocacy. 

" Russell," by Mr. James, declares its own character. Of course it 
includes many delineations of well-known characters : many descrip- 
tions of old oak chambers : of many old-fashioned interiors : of many 
hair-breadth escapes of heroes and heroines. Many elucidations of 
manners, and a due admixture of sentiment and historical detail. The 
machinery of this kind of novel has been reduced to a formula ; and 
very little opportunity of novelty is left for it. We are bound, how- 
ever, to say, though no very intense admirers of Mr. James's style and 
mode of producing fiction, that this novel has agreeably surprised us : 
there is in it a vivacity and spirit that we scarcely thought him capable 
of. The characters are sketched vigorously and freshly, and even the 



192 NEW BOOKS. 

descriptions have a force and vitality we could not expect from the fre^ 
quency of their repetition. The extremely interesting nature of the 
suhject may in some measure account for this. The fortunes of such 
distinguished men as Lord Russell and Algernon Sydney, could not 
fail to kindle the genius of the tamest writer. Tile manners of the 
time too, must always yield matter of suggestion to one possessed of 
any imaginative power. The strong privileges attached to one class-, 
the strong peculiarities of all others, certamly afford ample room for 
picturesque description. With the women, especially the handsome, 
it was a continual contest for the protection of their character ; ana 
with the men, a spirit of adventure, running into recklessness and 
crime, pervaded all classes. Although we cannot award to Mr. James 
the merit of truly depicting so extraordinary and characteristic a period, 
yet we may safely say that he has contrived to give interest and vitality 
to a formula universally adopted by the historical novelist^ that gives a 
genuine interest to his book. 

We have very peculiar notions as to the utility of this class of litera- 
ture at all, but as we cannot now state our reasons for desiring aji 
entirely new type for its development, we shall defer, for the present, 
any further opinion on the subject. 






DOUGLAS JERROLD^S 

SHILLING MAGAZINE. 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER.* 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ORION." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

FATE OF TITUS ANDRONICUS AT PORTSMOUTH. — M&.SHOBT's SUCCESSFUL FAILU&E. 
— MR. WALTON RESOLVES TO MAKE A T&IP TO DUBLIN. — DILEMMA OF ARCHER 
AND MART. — ^MR. SHORT's LOYE TACTICS. — ^ARRIVAL OF ELLEN LLOTD. — 
DEPARTURES FOR IRELAND. 

Harding came to Archer with a face of some perplexity. " What 
shall I do ?" said he. "I am very mifit for this sort of thing — 
and I do not like it — ^yet I should not wish to offend Mr. Walton. 
He is already very angry with pou. He says you called, the 
tragedy of ' Titus Andronicus ' gross homhast, and told him not to 
expose himself on the stage as a Clare- Market hutcher." 

**I shall merely say this to you, Harding," repUed Archer. 
" When Titus Andronicus has cut off his hand in order to save the 
lives of his two noble sons, and when the treacherous Aaron sends 
him back, in mockery, the heads of his twd sons, together with his 
hand, his brother Marcus Andronicus exclaims (and the passage is 
quite in the towering vein of Marlowe) — 



* Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily, 

And be my heart an ever-burning hell ! 
These miseries are more than may be borne !' 

But Titus Andronicus stands as if stunned by concussion of the 
brain, and at length says — 

* When will this fearful slumber have an end !' 

* Continued from page 117, Vol. VI. 
NO. XXXin. — ^VOL. VI. 



194 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER,' 

as though the thing were too horrible to he anything hut a dream ! 
There is a power and grandeur in this of the highest kind. Now^ 
picture to yourself our worthy friend, who would be a good specimen 
of a line old English country-gentleman, delivering this passage ! 
The attempt is too absurd to think of. So is the whole affair* 
Mr. Short, as SatuminuB, will far rather resemble an auctioneer 
who is endeavouring to show off some theatrical robe to the best 
advantage. Do not join them in this prank. It is neither a 
* fearful slumber,' nor a respectable reality : it caanot be regarded 
as a work or a dream, but a foolery. Have nothing to do with it.** 

Harding accordingly declined to appear as a Senator or Tribune* 
Mr. Walton and Mr. Short were too much occupied with their own 
parts to pay attention now to anything else; and as they had 
already secured the service of seven or eight stalwart shipwrighta 
and anchor-smiths, to be dressed alternately as Senators, Eoman 
Soldiers, or Goths, or to carry banners in processions, the resigna- 
tion of Harding was receivfid with oiily -a passing comment from 
Mr. Walton^ to the e£^ct that it w^as, <no doubt, owing to Archer. 

"Never mi^ him," mM Mr. -Short, ^♦nor Mr.Aidher^neither. 
The only thing I think about, is our good* success, and "the notoriety 
and patronage we shall obtain for our fishing-company in' Ireland.'* 

There was one other thing Mr.^hort thought about, which he 
forbore iio" mmitioti. Mid that was, the fine effect he hoped to 
produce upon Mary by his appearance as the Emperor '^atttrmims. 
Few women, he thought, could* behold suoh across as the one he 
Bhould appear in, and not feel a'fiutt^ng at the hea^ in' favour^of 
the wearer, If he were at all a likely man. 

The playbill, announcing that the various murders and muti- 
lations hi Tittts Andronicus would be adapt^' to the-modem taste, 
was duly cireulated. On further eonsideration, ^however, it was 
feared by Mr. Short, that these mitigations of ithe tragic shoeks 
might render their biU of fare less attractive*— dm fact, it might 
produce some apprehensions of disappointment in the public mind ; 
they resolved, therefore, to make up for these changes by the after- 
piece. Accordingly, the piece to follow the tragedy was " The 
Castle Spectre, or the Bleeding Nun." This, however, was to 
be performed by the regular company of actors, except the part of 
the Bleeding Nun, which would be played by an amateur — a 
Captain of Marines. His sudden ascent, through a ti^ap-door in the 
middle of the stage, was expected to produce an awfully para- 
lysmg effect. 



ZHS DSEAXBB AND TBB VOIOCBB. 195 

The' tragic Jdight .Mtiyed. Mr. Sbdrt Mine, to the tiieaitre m a 
ilj, 'dressed f<Mr his. part ; he had>be^i *f;at,it*' ever fiioce two 
4»'oloek. Mr. Walton . akotanired, ^>^th an ismnense hooghiof 
iaurelihat lobked verj^fre^ All <lhe other ainateurs« asriyed in 
.good time, exeept imo of the >anchorHimiths»>who^ were. -rather in 
lii^HOTy^and vMajor Ghnmshawe, *whose< visage of .habitual crimson 
took more tine to l^aek than- he- had oaleuiated. However, the^ 
^were all recldy at last. The overtiire was played hy one of the 
regimental bands, and ingeniously combined the ^SnaelodieB" 
of the *' Death^of AhereroBibie ' '.an^ '< Go taithe Denl and shake 
yourself, ' ' both selected by ihe Major. 

. .The. oustain orose-^die house ^was crowded.* CWeat was the 
applause. The^patronage^^ras manifest»-^atdeeet, so far asithe 
interest excited by the. promise of so maay heiTora was coneamed. 
The- tragedy- cfHnmonced. Mr. Walton proeeeded very well with 
his sententious heroism, and the lOthers aeqnitted themselFAS 
z«epeotahly^ with a little help .fr^n the promptear* But the omis- 
sions had been flo< nomeroas that by the time they had amved^at 
the third aeene of the seeond.ad;,^ there was e^^ery premise of a. 
9ery dull> affair. A litUe theatrical inisdent,: hewoTer, not intended 
to be introdaced in *' Titus Andronious," set this: (juestion at rest io^ 
a moment, and cut short the tragedy* 

•. :This untoward, though imost eSie^Ye aacident, was. "Caused by 
.tiie anxious assiduUies of the Captain of > Marines to prepare eyery- 
thing for lus ascent as Ihe Spectre Nun ihrough the trap-door in 
the middle of the stage. He was determined to see to arerything' 
himself— ^he would trust nobody — ^it was too important — ^he was- 
resolved to look to l^e trap in person, and take care .that the bdte* 
could be easily whhdfawn, so that the trap should slide back 
•without the elwaee of a hitch. J^ow,> while he was grea(»9g the 
boUs of this trap, and trying if they worked easily, the second act 
0f '^ Titus Androniaus" was going on orer^head^ and at a mpst in- 
appr<^iate— roras it appeared to the audience, a most appropriate 
moment — Mr .^ Short -stepped upon thia trap in the natural progress 
of the scene, as he was adyMudng to look at the hole>into whiah 
faasianus has been thrown. 

Enter Satuminus and Aaron :-^ 

*'Sat. — Along with me I 1 11 see what hole is here f 

With tbeee words, .the Emperor Saturninus pompously adranced a 
few paces, and then stumbled half-way down through the trap. It 

o2 



196 THE DREAUEH AND THE WORKER. 

clung by the tip of one of the holts, which the excited Captain 
beneath was endeavouring with all his might to force back again, 
but in vain, and then, with a most rueful look, down went Satur- 
ninus through the stage, leaving his diadem at the brink, over 
which Titus Andronicus and Aaron cautiously peeped, looking in 
terror and confusion into the abyss amidst the convulsive laughter 
of the audience. Most assuredly the " effect " produced by this 
upon Mary's mind, was anything but what poor Mr. Short had 
contemplated. 

This ludicrous and unintentional coup-de-thedtre was prolonged 
by the confused energies of the Captain underneath, who in his 
wild endeavours to repair the disaster he had caused, clasped Mr. 
Short's legs in both arms and hoisted him up, loudly exhorting him 
to regain his position upon the stage ; so that the wretched head 
and shoulders of Satuminus rose again, and appeared for a few 
seconds above the trap, and then sank for ever ! 

The drop-scene was lowered in confusion. Mr. Short was not 
hurt beyond a few slight bruises, and a grazed cheek and elbows ; 
but it was impossible to resume the tragedy. The after-piece was, 
however, very successful, producing almost as much laughter as 
the tragedy, and the audience went away extremely satisfied with 
the evening's amusement, which had exceeded their expectations. 

Mr. Walton had left the theatre in despair at the untowajjd acci- 
dent which had destroyed the further progress of the tragedy, at 
the end of the second act. Mary sought in vain to console and 
calm him. 

" How have I exposed myself ! " cried he ; "to what ridicule ! 
amidst which the drop-scene fell, only just in time to prevent my 
throwing myself down the hole*after poor Short, and hiding my 
confusion ! What fools did we all look ! Who could have fore- 
seen such a disaster ! Yet it all makes Archer appear so very 
right, and me so very wrong. No doubt but the character of Titus 
Andronicus was very unfit for me. I accept the evil position Fate 
has ordained me. To-morrow morning I shall write a note to 
Archer, and make a humble apology, regretting extremely that I 
did not attend to his advice. Mary, where is my nightcap ? I 
think I should like to sit in it ti little while." 

Mr. Walton's head sank upon his breast, and with a most humble 
and abased air he sat silentl}'^ looking down at his toes. He con- 
tinued in this state for nearly half an hour, by which time Mary 
had caused the supper to be laid. She persuaded her father to 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 197 

I 

turn round to the table. He did so in a very resigned manner, 
and, by degrees, and as if he scorned all eating, made a very 
good supper. 

He had concluded, and was in the act of stirring a timibler of 
red wine negus, when a note arrived from Mr. Short. It was to 
the effect that notwithstanding his bruises, he had caused all the 
money to be brought to him from the theatre, and had sat up in 
bed to count it. The proceeds he declared far to exceed his most 
sanguine hopes ; and he had moreover already received several 
visits ' and messages from persons of consequence, condoling with 
his accident — trusting he was not severely hurt — and expressing 
the greatest interest in the Anglo-Celtic Smack-building Company. 
The theatrical failure of the tragedy was a commercial success. 
It was a most prosperous beginning of the undertaking. 

"Aha!" laughed Mr. Walton, "here's news! Read this 
note. Who is right now, Mary ? I thought Short knew what 
he was about. Archer took too much upon himself. He ought to 
make me an apology.*' 

The " noise" of all this, added to the amount of money col- 
lected, and the apparent interest excited, worked a change in the 
opinion of more than one person, previously opposed to the attempt. 

The views Mr. Bainton had entertained of the theatrical per- 
formance had been of a complicated nature. In the first place, he 
highly disapproved of all such things, on the score of strict reli- 
gious tenets ; but he thought a charitable purpose might render it 
pardonable. He endeavoured to persuade himself that the scheme 
of smack -building in Ireland came under the denomination of 
charitable, because the Irish fisheries were in a wretched state of 
neglect, yet offering great means of ameliorating the condition of the 
people — and there was nothing the Irish needed more than good 
example. It was therefore charitable to give them this by show- 
ing them how the fish might be taken. Nevertheless, he thought 
it a very strange and unbusiness-like mode of commencing an 
undertaking like theirs, and he was more than half disposed to 
withdraw from it. The great success, however, of the amateurs, 
and the notoriety it caused, settled the question in his mind, and 
he requested Harding to be in rekdiness to accompany him to 
Ireland in the course of next week. 

A great many persons (most of them idlers) called on Mr. 
Short and Mr. Walton, and asked various questions concerning the 
new project ; several also inquired about shares — ^when they 
would be issued — ^how soon they might be expected to be at a 



198 THE DBEilM3BB AND THB WOBKEB. 

premimn^— idfaco were to form the Proyisional OomBiittee— wkether 
thenar wew any^ vaciuioies^— aad what attendance-foe would be 
giren to a member of the Proyisional Committee. Mr; Short 
WBiked-at^Mr. Walton, and held up one finger, to indicate eaution 
and quietude under the fermentation of success. Mr. Walton 
rttbbed his hands, and asked how soon Mr. Short intended to set 
ovt for Dublin, as he w«ks resolved to accept his invitation for a 
few weeks.^ 

Amidst these circnmstances, added to some others, the relatiTe 
posi^ons ol Archer and Mary were perplexing ai|d painfdlii 
Aorsker's remi^jfeances also, had not yet arriyed<— the editor of the 
quarterly' jonmal to which he contributed, was on the continent; 
tkoi^h' expeoted back 4aily ; and. the- friend who had bonrowed oS 
Archer still delayed to send it according to his promise^ wiiick 
Archer thought very extraordinary behayiour. His landlady had 
meantime . sent up her account for ''three weeks' lodgings, asad 
snndriesy" and would be glad to haye ker bill settled. Sheiwaa 
quite an ordinary sort of woman, and had no delicacy. Archer 
could not bear ta writa to his uncle, nor, under present cireum- 
staaces, could he apply to Mr. Walton. He shrunk even froxa 
telling Mavy, feeling that he was in a position of paltry annoy« 
anee; and he was yery much of HasHtt's opinion (whose essay on 
the subjeotihe forthwith* read with unction), that the want* of 
money is apt to make a- man ridiculous. He had bought all Vol* 
taire- and ajil Goetiboy a great bargain, and had left himself without 
& shillings and owing for '' three weeks* lodgings and sundries^" 
It ynks equally contemptible and irritating ^^ nothing initsdf, but 
inbearable in its consequences. So much for external circumr* 
Bl*noes*^but how as a matter of feding? To say the trutib» 
ArehfiT did not mnoh wish to acccHupany them to Ireland^ 
He- did not objeette Mary's going, as it was only for a shost 
time. 

TheoircumstanBea^ and state of feeling, in which Mary found 
herself were no less perplexiBg. She did not like to allow her. 
father to go without her, neither did she like to acc<»npany hna 
on his.yisit te* Mf. Shorty whose behayiour to her whenever Ah^ker. 
was^ not psesent^ was of a kind very dii&uit to deal with, or tot 
endure. He was preposterously polite, attentive, and mosift 
respeoiful ^ yet as.hio knew she was engaged^ there was too muck 
of !ali tins.; At itha same time, he never committed himself in any* 
pfu^idav^instanea* that would warrant a reproof , or direct object 
tioft.* As* far as faoor own feeling was c<meemed, the temporary 



THE SBBAMER AlO) THE WORKSB. 199 

Mparatioa ftom Archier did not weigh mueh^ They had both 
bcien acoostomed of late to depend more upon their own iivrard 
reaoorceSi than sympathies, whieh were unfortunat^y only p^urtial; 
still she hardly felt it delicate towards Areher, to become tbe 
visitOE'of Mr, Short ; neither could she say this to her father, aa 
he would haye pooh-pooh*d it, and asked for mgns* and tokens, 
none of whu^h. she could : adduce, or would like to speak; of^ if she 
couU. 

Harding, aod Mr^ Bainten now came to take their leaYe, not 
knowing if Mr. Walton and Mary would be likely to eome to 
Ireland during^ their stay. Mr. Walton told them he had nearly 
made up his mind tacome over to Dublin very shortly; he did not 
know if his daughter would accompany him. He shook hands 
with both of them, and wished them a fine vioyage* " Mary is 
up*stairs in the drawing-'room," said he, '< writing notes to EUeft 
liloyd, aad to her aunt Judith, and half a doaesi meve. Rua up 
and wish h^'good-bye." Mr* Sainton axA Harding accordingly 
left thte room, whiere Mr. Walton was reading the ne^rapi^per, aod 
Mr. Baiatcm aseended the stairs. Harding loiteved below in the 

Sissage — then hastify adranced to the foot of the 8tairs» "hUr^ 
ainton's heavy footst^s sounded upon th9 floor- above, — l^ 
Harding hesitated with one hand upon the banm8ters,'-Htfid look- 
ing down at his feet, he remained* there till Mr. Baintcm' returned. 

'* I thought," said Mr. Bainton, '* you were close ^behiad . me^ 
eoming up to wish Miss Walt^m good-bye ! I tcdd hw you yrex^ 
below. Bun up, man, — ^nujkbe haste ! I wish to ba off < eady-^ 
why, how pale you look ! An't you well» Hardii^ ?'' 

" Oh, very well," replied Harding — <^only a slight headfteho* 
It will go ^off .directly I get out into the -open air*" 

" But won'ttyou " 

** 1^0^ I thank yott-^^Masa Walton wiU ea^xise it, I know-^we ai:e 
late/' 

And Harding hurried out at- the door, followed by liir. Baintoflt, 
who was net sorry that ha made no farther, delay. They left 
!Bortsmouth the same evening, acccMnpanied by three shipwrights 
from 2Ar. Bainton's own building-yard, BfA ali^y who was about ta 
ba apprenticed to the craft, 

W^hile this was transpiring, the acute and sensitive Mr. Sh<»rt 
h»A beocMae i^are of a certain indescribable something in Maay^a 
behaviour to huoa which made Urn see the i»sd|»n of caution ; he 
ti]|erefore resolved upon a fine touch of pohey which shwld nsiutraliae 
Mary's objeotion.to cesniii^ as a.visitor to his house. He ttffeated 



200 THE DKEAMER AND THE WORKER. 

to be greatly delighted with the society of Miss Lloyd, and divided 
his attentions equally between her and Mary for a few days. He 
then proceeded to give the balance a little in favour of Miss Lloyd ; 
and he even went so far, one evening at tea, as to ** make eyes " 
at her across the table, just between the candlesticks and the urn. 
Miss Lloyd wondered what had happened to him, or to herself. 
Mary (being quite deceived by this ruse of the ingenious gentleman, 
and too happy to be relieved from his attentions) joked Miss Lloyd 
upon her conquest. Miss Lloyd felt a little uncomfortable at the 
thing, as she had a peculiar dislike to Mr. Short ; both the ladies, 
however, laughed very much over the whole business, because Miss 
Lloyd did not fail to express her regret at the rapid ** change " in 
Mr. Short's sentiments. 

The clever and bold Mr. Short now went so far as to hint at 
including Miss Lloyd in his invitation. Their acquaintance being 
so recent, besides that she expected her sister Ellen would shortly 
arrive, she of course declined. Whereupon he requested Mr. and 
Miss Walton to press her warmly to accept the invitation, while he 
took an opportunity, when nobody else was present, of repeating 
the same to Miss Lloyd in the coldest manner. All worked to his 
wish, and the skilful Mr. Short soon found that Mr. and Miss 
Walton were to be his guests in Dublin. 

Such was the state of parties and affairs when Ellen Lloyd 
arrived, under the simple-minded but safe convoy of David Wil- 
liams. Amidst the bustle and preparation of Mr. Walton and 
Mary for going to Ireland, happening as it did so immediately 
after the fluctuating excitement of the amateur tragedy, and 
amidst the unsatisfactory state of mind and feelings experienced 
by Mary and Archer, added to the vexing circumstances of the 
latter, the arrival of Ellen Lloyd was felt a most refreshing and 
happy event. As she had not been present during any of the recent 
events, everybody forgot them for a time, and returned in imagina- 
tion to their pleasant abode under the roof of the cottage in 
Wales, with all the soft and pastoral associations of the surround- 
ing scenery. Ellen seemed to bring among them an innocence of 
all the affairs of the world, and a freshness and sweetness of 
nature, which renewed in every one the happy emotions of youth, 
and the dawn of hope and fancy. She looked rather pale, but 
was not sad ; and when they asked her about her music, she smiled 
away the tinge of melancholy that was upon her cheek, and 
charmed them all with the pathos of her voice and expression in 
singing one of the melodies that had delighted them in Wales. 



"THE PEOPLE TRAMPLED DOWN." 201 

• * If I had not almost sworn I would go to Dublin," said Mr. Walton, 
'* I would stay here to enjoy the society of our young friend Ellen." 

** I am sure," said Mary, "we shall all return the sooner for 
our own sakes, and I hope we shall be able to make amends to her 
for running away now." 

In a few days Mr. Walton and Mary accompanied Mr. Short on 
a visit to Dublin. Archer was to follow, in all probability, next 
week, as he said. But the friend who was to have remitted the 
sum borrowed of Archer still remained silent, and the editor of 
the quarterly journal aforesaid had not returned from the continent. 
Archer thought this latter delay particularly hard, as he had 
written the leading article, and the editor had received several 
complimentary letters from parties who supposed it to proceed 
from the editorial pen, and were allowed to remain under that 
impression. There was no help for it. Archer would follow on 
to Dublin, if he could do so, in the course of a week ; if not, it 
would scarcely be worth while, as Mary would be returning. 

Meanwhile Ellen Lloyd remained with her sister in Mr. Walton's 
cottage, which he and Mary earnestly exhorted them to regard as 
their own, however unworthy the comparison, in a picturesque 
point of view, though the latter had even included the free use of 
his new boat, and his brass telescope. 



" THE PEOPLE TRAMPLED DOWN : " 

WITH A PROPHECY. 



Once on a time in England 

The king o'er all did rule, 
Whether he were a knave or knight, 

A wise man, or a fool. 
And the haughty barons feared him, 

And bent before the crown ; 
None heeded then the stifled cry 

Of the People trampled down. 

When this king he went a hunting, 

He sent his merry men 
To drive the farmer from the field, 

The shepherd from the glen ; 



202 ''TH3B PEOPLE TRAMPTiET) JXm9* 



19 



And they razad each peasant's jcottage. 

In. all the country round. 
That the king might go a hunting 

On a kingly hunting-ground. 

He seized the strong man's castle, 

By the right of the more strong ; 
And neither Priest nor womankind 

Was sacred from his wrong. 
What recked he of a woman's tears. 

Or of a churchman's gown ; 
What heeded he the stifled cry, 

Of the People trampled down 1 

Now this king he had a quarrel 

With his cousin king of France ; 
So he called out all his merry men, 

With sword and how and lance ; 
And they fought faU many a hattle 

On many a hloody plain. 
And only rested from their strile. 

To strive the more again. 

Then the Barons they grew holder, 

And met at Rnnoymede ; — 
^'Thou 'st taught i^s wax, oh King ! " they cried, 
"And now we must be freed." 
So the king he quailed before them, 

Them and their stem appeal ; 
And he gave them Magna Charta, 

And sealed it with his seal. 

Next the Barons ruled in England, 

With iron heart and hand ; 
And severer even than the king,-~ 

Did they oppress the land. 
For the fiercest was the noblest,— 

That man was deemed the best. 
Who drove his sword the deepest <| 

Into a foeman's breast, ] 

Th^ fought full many a battle, 

With Roses White and Red, 
That they might put a shadow^s ciown 

Upon an empty head. 
And their wars spread woe and wailing 

Through country and throu^ town r, 
None heeded then the stifled cry 

Of the People trampled down. 



■ 
J 



**THB PEOPLE tRAMPLBD DOWN." 203 

Then the crown in torn grew stronger^ 

And for many hundred years 
There was one tyrant in the king, 

Or many in the Peers. 
And in their bitter vbcvdng, 

The red blood poured like rain ; 
And the flower of English manhood, 

By English hands w«re slain. 

At length they ceased to battle, 

And cut their neighbour's throats ; 
And, as gentler Whigs and Tories, 

They bought each ot^er^s votes. 
And the rich man only made the laws 

For country and for town ; 
None heeded yet the stifled cry 

Of the People trampled down» 

At last there rose a monnnr 

From out that patient crowd, 
And the sound of million voices 

Swelled like a tempest loud. 
"Our rights ! our richts ! " they shouted, 

Till it thundered in the ears 
Of the gentle Whigs and Tories, 

And the King, and all his Peers. 

Oh^ that claim of earnest milliona. 

None may withstand its might ! 
When strong in holy patience. 

Strong in a holy right. 
80 with Jlistice for their banner, 

And Reason for their sword. 
They won. their Uoodless battle, 

Bui wronged no squire, no lord. 

* * «*. * * « ' 

4H » fr •' # ' 

Now there 's right in merry Englsknd' 

For the cott^ie and the throne ; 
Thlb King, he has his honour. 

And the poor man holds his own* 
And throu£^ our hi^py Island, 

In coun^ or in town, 
Is Jieard no more the stifled cry 

Of the People trampled down. 

A. M» Z. 



204 



POUND AND BENNY BRIBERY. 

BY PAUL BELL. 

London, August, 1847. 

" 'Tis a far cry t.o Lochow," says the old Scottish proverb : and 
betwixt London and Paris lies a channel of Discord, too wild 
and wide to be easily bridged over. Still it required no acoustic 
electricity, on a certain day last month, to bring a pistol-shot to 
my ear, as distinctly as if it had been the first sound of fire-arms 
which had ever been heard in France ; — and as if there were no 
such things in that land of the Pacific as duels — practising targets 
— 'feux de joie — or other explosions of gunpowder, in which is 
vented the enthusiasm of a People, who are nothing, so runs the 
boast, if not military. 

I mean M. Teste's attempt on himself. A Minister rushing 
into suicide because he cannot endure the exposure of his having 
received a bribe, is, indeed, sure to make a sound which shall 
arrest the attention of all Europe. By aid of my Lame Boy, (who 
chatters French like a magpie,) I learn that the Paris journals 
speak of the poor gentleman as having lived beyond his means, in 
accordance with the present French fashion of the time ; which is 
to furnish splendidly, to dine ** succulently," to dress curiously, to 
ride as the Arabs do ; to have coaches and fine clothes, and trinkets^ 
and opera-boxes at the service of every Lady who is neither wife, 
daughter, mother, nor sister. It is not long since I was looking 
over a collection of statistical notes on household expenditure in 
France, calculated to astonish all moderate and old-fashioned 
souls, who think they have furnished, when their rooms are chaired, 
tabled, carpeted, and curtained ;— with a sofa for the invalid, and a 
solemn easy throne in the chimney-comer set apart for ** Grand- 
father." So much for looking-glasses ! — so much for clocks ! 
(your frivolous people, it may be observed, have always an inordi- 
nate fancy for clocks) — so much for candelabra — so much for 
marble tables — so much for portieres ; curtains to hang before 
doors of which no properly built house stands in need — so much 
for " objects of taste ! " I forget the average paid for ornaments 
on the mantle-shelf ! — ^but it seemed enormous, some might say 



POUND AND PENNY BRIBERY. 205 

wicked, to such of us as were brought up on a stuffed gold phea- 
sant, two screw shells, and a pair of card screens warped with 
heat and yellow with time. One has hut to listen to half-a-dozen 
of the new French norels to learn how much our neighbours think 
of such things. There *s hardly one in which the author does not 
show that he understands more about a Curiosity Shop than Mr. 
Dickens' old man of card-playing memory. And — to jump with 
French audacity to a conclusion about French matters — since this 
living outrageously must be maintained, if not paid for — Ministers 
must consent to the shame of being bribed, and the tale be wound 
up, as we have seen, like a chapter of ** Monte-Ohristo " — with a 
loud and shameful report. 

The tale, however, would be of little more serious import to us, 
than the dashing and brilliant romance I have mentioned (which is 
nearly as good as if it were true), could we turn its pages with 
quite clean hands. We are far, I trust humbly — knowing that 
Pride leads to a downfall, — past such political profligacy as seeks its 
quietus in suicide. The days of our Brounckers, and of our Bubb 
Doddingtons, are over. So long ago as Mr. Pitt's reign, our 
Premier — if we are to trust Lady Hester's sprightly reminiscences 
— ^had attained to the virtue of sending back the chest of gold to 
the City, in the hackney-coach, with the merchants who brought it. 
With cJl. the rabid acrimony of the Country Party, they have never 
dared to whisper that Sir Robert sold their corn-fields for a Wood 
by Hobbima, or a Waterfall by Ruysdael ! It is not the gold of 
the Fever Doctors — nor of the Homoeopath ists — nor the Hygeists 
— which has bought out the Health of Towns Bill — nor "the 
rent " of the Hedge Schoolmasters and Poor Scholars of the 
Verdigris Isle, (as the Emerald gem of the sea in its famine- 
mildew was most fitly styled) that has purchased the assistance 
for Maynooth, which has made so many Black Gowns, black in the 
face also, with charitable Protestant choler ! Who would dare to 
imagine, even, that The Duke had been " reduced " by the adroit 
administration of one lump of bronze, into acquiescing that another 
lump of bronze, more huge and unsightly still, should stare into 
his drawing-room windows — for the delectation of the dray-men, 
porter-brewers, and other such cognoscenti as pass Hyde Park 
Comer ? 

No : positive though we be — every Gaul wiU swear it — and 
" shopkeepers," moreover, as your Frenchman will equally assert : 
with a sneer like Sheridan's at those Avho imagine money was 



206 VOXJJSD JOTD FKKNT SRIBBBT. 

^oinddinto itheiroiid for tlie foiile pfarpoae ofrpa3ringr!€[6bt8~««^-44t 
is long ginoe we'-bsre given up cash transaoiions of tliisi^kind,iiii 
onr htgh^la6es-*H>r even those more primstiye operations of 'ionter^ 
l»;f( whioh Mussidmen ^and Massidwomen'seek to uMnre the favour 
of these who can protect -or injure them. There is imprev8mjent> 
too, in the 'world helow stairs. Profliga^ counts its .gains. lat 
election time, -bj hundreds — ^where of old it was an b&lw of tena 
*of thooiSands. Canary birds, Ouekoos, and Go<^atoos, airerno 
longer a fortoae to the independent Women of Muffbovough. Your 
8oion of the Nobility will think twice ere he will o^r.his **poBy '* 
for the privOege of kissing the stubborn voter's last^bcm! hope, 
*' the flabby, dabby, baby," — who is one day to be made -an 
Exciseman or a Tidewaiter 'by my Locd's ptarmission. There 
is <a growing taste for Purity among other sanatory improve- 
ments. This all honest men will help forward to ''the best of 
their authority," (as an old school^fellow of mine used te put it), 
seeing that whereas most of the Virtues may become morbidy^if 
pushed too high, and siarained too far — Purity canned. '<Eude 
health " is the worst similitude which csui be ap^ed to it : and 
the race of Lord Eglantines, who were shocked by this, is,; ha|^j 
for British Manhood^ becoming rapidly extinct. 

But-let me ask — ^if we be increasingly clear of the coarse vice of 
giving in to Bribery : increasingly disposed to recognise aineefity 
in our public men, whether it be the sincerity which acts upon 
changed opinions, or the sincerity which stands fast — ^are wesufii^ 
ciently nice in the employment of, in the appeal to. Influence ?-— 
sufficiently honourable in avoiding all by-ways, all manner of 
secondary means to turn the tide of affairs. Or, expecting. no such 
impossible perfection as that selfish and vulgar chicanery shall 
cease in the land, do we sufficiently recognise the Principle — ^that 
those having power are accountable for its use to others thaa their 
personal friends and private correspondents ? 

The verdict in a recent English trial, jarred on my ears very 
nearly as harshly as the French pistol-^shot. It was proved that a 
servant in a public journal, was moved by individualdispleasure to 
give more than common publicity to the report of a trial affecting 
the character of one who had aflronted him« Pains* was taken to 
make the "showing-up *' complete — in a case which, othenrise, 
might have been let alcme : the ease being one of no remarkable 
importance. But Nokes was resolved to use The Trumpet to 
blazon abroad the infamy of Styles. Styles, aware of the intent 



FOinm XSD VSSCSTT BRIBEBT. S07 

of NokoB, wrote to Ihe Proprntore, wanimg ^bemili^t Ihcdr Tnmf^ 
"pet uvus flibont to be<'OOAverted into an organ of mjvrj* Nokss 
i(^p«Bed tbe 'letter, as * was bis business' — 'bat • witbbeld * it, at i 1b8 
pleasure, tSl tbe Trvsmpet bad blown its Uast, and tbe infamy of 
Styles was {Mrooktimed. Tbe Proprietoirsof the Trumpet, honovar- 
ablj indignant at tbis keeping-baek of tbe;tratbi&om tbem, till 
Tengeance bad wroagbtits wo^, 'dismissed Nokes^oa &e spottvas 
a traitorous serrant, not tabe* trusted. Nokes brougbt^ an action 
against tbem for wages : wbicb could be only; recvreradjin.eaed'lie 
was proved to bave been un£nrly dismissed. Tkei 3^7 decided in 
faronr of Nokes. 

Now, 'tis of litiiile matter wbetber one mesoa man or .andiiher 
i^all be tfive bundred pound9<ncber 'or poorer. But it t^ of eoBAe- 
fuencetbat'Malioe sball be iaotbeiiLticatdd by Law, in mrii^ the 
public press for its prttate uses. Granted tbattbe letter efj|iro- 
pdiety was kept; granted, for ai^^mnent's sake, tbat Styles was 
racked not a screw'st turn more tbanbe migbt, otberwise, acci- 
dentally bare been racked — tbe suppression of ^yWs letter 
should bare been sufficient for the Twdve' Wise Men : as' showing 
tbem secret interest at work, to the mystification of public doeu- 
ments. Tbe theory of every respeotable journal is to shame The 
Devil. Here was N<^s holding tbe candle to ^at Personage : 
dismissed for tampmng with tbe Evil One. " Nay, but," said 
tbe juiy, " it was but a farthing candle which Nokes held I > Let 
the man have bis wages ! " For, twist' and turn tbe fact>bow you 
will — ^to this, and notiiing less or more, did tbe v^ict amount. 
Had Nokes been really innocent — really victimised by .Satanic 
virtue — ^he would have biwl Damages-^not Dues I 

I know not, however, whether one ebould be -surprised ^ or de- 
pressed, at twelve thoughtless men thus falling . sdiort of bigb 
principle — ^thus giving the sanction of English Law to the bribery 
of tbe English Pres8,-^f one has bad any opportunity of observing 
the ways and means of directing and expressing opinion, sanetioned 
so universally by those who rule tbe World— r^e Men. of Oenius 
and of Letters. 

What misuse, for instance, have we not aeen, of those 
ebarming words. Sympathy and Admiration! how few will 
practically admit tbat the limits of support before the public 
should be determined by Truth, not personal partiality ! Are we 
clear — ^we Men of Letters — of demanding that < our crities should 
be eulogists and nothing more? Which of us^^wbon an un- 



208 POUND AND PENNY BRIBERY. 

favourable jadgment is registered against his new poem, play, 
picture, or novel — when, even, it is pronounced inferior to some 
of its predecessors — ^will allow the opinion to have been honestly 
formed ? Shall we not rather say that Nokes has been careless ; 
or is growing twaddling ; or has taken offence ; or joined a new 
set who have resolved to cry us down ? Which of us does not 
criticise the Critic, with as much virulence — with as unhesitating 
an attribution of motives — as if our business, which is to create, 
and his, which is to distinguish, were one and the same ? 

But, then, the geniality of Praise! the blessed influence of 
encouragement ! — the necessity of making up for the contempt 
and indifference of the worldly. As well, it seems to me, extol 
Rouge as the true bloom ! — or gas-light as more wholesome than 
the noonday sunshine, which is crossed with clouds ! Who but 
laughs at the vanity of Queen Bess, and her royal edict against 
shadows in her portrait ? Yet are we not as vain? — or, at least, 
for the secondary purpose of thriving, are we not willing to seem so ? 
Do we not forget that Praise, when it implies concealment of faults 
or flattery of beauties, is imposture upon the Public ? — that the 
encouragement which presses a writer to believe himself immacu- 
late, is destructive of all incentive to Progress ? — that, inasmuch 
as it is the World which patronises — (must I be coarse, and say 
which pays ?) — and since the World looks to the Critic for 
guidance and protection — ^it is no light thing to destroy confidence 
of the Public : to hoodwink its powers of discrimination, by passing 
off as first-rate an inferior or an important article ? — And, then, 
'tis all verv well for us who have friends : but think how this 
"shoulder to shoulder" resolution of supporting A. B. and C, 
down to Z. of our own particular alphabet, through thick and 
thin, operates in keeping down — in keeping out — ^the Man who is 
unknown ; or whose manners, being less prepossessing than his 
genius, do not win him in private the enthusiastic affection of his 
comrades. Till we can come to a direct adjustment of these 
matters, — till we can admit the critical function to comprehend 
only Truth and not Favour, — we have small ground to feel a 
Pharisaical assurance that we are raised by moral growth, above 
the possibility of State Bribery and Press Corruption : — no right 
to listen with the eager ear of flattered vanity to talcs of the 
venality of the Parisian or Transatlantic journalist, and the blind- 
ness, according to tariffs, of the Austrian Police ! 

Nay: in our social relations — in our kneading-troughs, or in 



POUND AND PENNT BBIBEBY. 209 

our private chambers — can we say, that the English preseiTe the 
dignity which declines all indirect traffic, and thus renders Bribery 
impossible ? Do we forget Miss Edgeworth's over-true tale of the 
" dried salmon/' forced upon Lady St. James, by Lady Clonbrony, 
with the return of an invitation in prospect ? What do our novdl- 
ists — what do our play-wrights tell us about the Manoeuvring 
Wives, Mothers, Aunts, of England ? Let M. disclose the secret 
hbtory of his dinner which figured so proudly in The Post : Let 
N. reveal how she stormed Castle This, and the other Great 
House ; and fetched away their aristocratic owners, to give an 
air to her Ball or her Breakfast. Not to pry, sir, I wiU go no 
further ; but conclude this part of my homily touching Bribery in 
the West — ^as a Wise Man of the East should do, by an Example-^^ 
not to call it a Fable ! 

This is a delicious passage in one of the Italian comedies, 
which I never fail to think of, so often as the subject returns 
upon me. A certain vulgar Merchant's vulgar Wife, rich, enter- 
prising, obtuse, and ambitious, resolved to force her way into 
the fashionable society of an Italian town, where she had lately 
come to reside. The great Ladies, resolute like Mrs. Fielding 
in "The Cricket," "to be genteel or die," would have none 
of her. She must procure the powerful aid and protection of 
one of " the Order " ? Godmothers were scarce. Happily, how- 
ever, the Order was not a very rich one. One Lady, with the 
very bluest blood in her veins, — an unlucky Grandee who had lost a 
fortime, or a lover, or an estate, (who knows ?) allowed it to be 
whispered that she had a sympathy for the vulgar Woman — might 
be prevailed upon to cross the Rubicon of Etiquette for her sake, 

on conditions Heavens above ! but what conditions ? 

Time was being lost : Life is short :: — Let the great Lady only 
name her wishes ! Not so fast .... Tact forbids rude haste. 
One must be delicate when handling Earth's Porcelain ! Suppose 
that the Merchant's Lady (a present were too gross a thing — not 
to be thought of . . . . Our Countess would faint at the bare 

idea !) ^Suppose, then, that the Merchant's Lady were to 

manage to lose a wager to the Grandee : a diamond brooch. 
Bay .... No ? — ^Well, a diamond brooch, such as the Countess 
could wear, is costly ! — A watch, perhaps : — It should be a watch, 
that the vulgar Woman of Castellamare should stake, (of course a 
watch of the best quality, capped and jewelled, sir, no doubt) — 
yes, it should be a watch. And the Go-between ventured to say, 

NO. XXXm. — VOL. VI. p 



210 POUND AND PBKNT BBIBBRT. 

that, the watch once won, and iiairly in 'ward^ — the Parai^ee uf 
High Life, with all its- endless sweets, ^onld he thereupon set 
Of en to the She-Trader ; the Conntess nndeptakiug to answer fer 
the henignity of all the other Countesses, Duohesses, Marohion:- 
esses, and of the Caraliers who did unto them belong : — ^A laz^ 
promise : hut she had to deal with one who had deaenedto^xaet 
her penny's worth for her penny ! 

Well, the Wager was to ** come off " at one of their grtat evi»- 
ing parties, where trayeUers teU us there is nothing to eat, and 
as Irttle to say worth hearing :— And punolaal to the moment, 
arrived the Vulgar Woman, fine as hands could make her — i&t 
this never to he forgiven — and with such a watch at her side ! 
The watch — ^half of which was paid for hy himscflf— given to Mr. 
Pecksniff, at Mr. P.'s request, by the publisher of his "Popular 
Architecture," which was exhibited up and dovirn'the «K)UBtry, a 
travelling and ticking proof of the success 'Of the laretttese — ^even 
that watch, designed hy an II.A., completed by Bunt and Ros^ 
keU's best hand — was a mere otncouth ttimip, — a >barb»rous 
Nuremburg "^hour^egg," as compared with the horologe so tempt- 
ingly paraded by The Tradress of Castellamare ! In spite of the 
vulgarity of staring. The Countess* and the Countess's Oentleman- 
in- Waiting could mot take their eyes off it ! To be sure, it was 
sarcastically critioieed ; but only by the unhappy pereons who were 
shut out of the »little-go. — The Vulgar Woman took courage. 
The Grandees were all in the power of that Watch ! 

Conversation began with, great ^irit :-^the object being to ^t 
up an argument on the shortest possible notice. %at this did not 
prove easy. Difficulties arise even in amicable* suits. Our Vulgar 
Woman, proud to exhibit her politeness, would neither contradict, 
nor be contradicted. " The Ladies knew best ! " and it was only 
when she put forth her > one fashionable fact, that the Marquis of 
Sangue-Ddcehad a hooked nose — that the impatient Woman' of 
Quality, by asserting ibe feature snub, in the flattest manni^, was 
enabled to bring ^matters in the least, into the right train. The 
Tradress fired up :— " No-^she was not quite ignorant : she hctd 
seen something of genteel Life ! — .the nosctoas hooked." ** Would 
she lay a wager on the point? "asked the Countess, who neither 
knew nor cared about aught save hoWtofingerH;he Watch. — :•' Will- 
ingly '' — and the Wager was made. A eoipvenient arbiter was to 
be called in. But, alas ! the vanity >of the Vulgar Woman had 
been so piqued as totrnt^e her forget, Arr the instant, >all her 



DEMOCRACY IN 1847. 211 

ambitions and the cunning derioes tbereunrto appertaining. Ske 
became angry, obstinate — would not lose her Watch in a lady- 
like or an un4fMiy-like manner : was found wanting — and bundled 
off borne in disgraoe. A flaming Bword was set at tbe gate of ber 
Eden. She was thenceforward, and for ever, forbidden to set so 
littie.as a toe upon the threshold ! 

One rejoices in her discomfiture ; still more in the disappoint^ 
ment of the Little Gentlewoman, whose vulgarity had been fio near 
profiting by that of the Pretender to Fashion ! But can we 
rejoice, withcFut a certain uneasy consciousness that such things 
are done, not oiidy among the dwellers at Oa«tellama(re, but 
Hkevrise at Chmter, or Cirencester, or Oamb^^ell ? Call me a 
wire-drawer who will, fastidious about motfeers of small conse**- 
quence ; it is only one hard name or -so the more to bear. And I 
can bear it, provided the inhabitants of one^house are stvengthened 
in fair trading ; provided those w^o have affairs in their hands — - 
the Man over his state papers or merchandise — the Woman in her 
minuter sphBre--^can be brought one step nearer owning that 
there is one thing 'better even ihan gadn, or success, or victor^--- 
and that is honourable, and uncoirupted Truth ; neither bribed, 
nor giving in to bx^bery to the amount of Pound, Penny, or 
Pepper-corn ! 



J)EMOCBACY m 1847. 



'' Thej cure the wizta^ and leave untoitched tke ttleen, or ertn envenom them 
•till more." — Lutmsxu 

At the present moment specially, the progress of the principle 
of democracy claims eacnest attention and manful exposition. 
Within the last few yeaars there has been infused into the social 
body an honest spirit of self-assertion— a recognition of the 
principle that • seeks to do . away with class legislation. And it is 
a strong proof of the soundness of this growing principle that it 
has become identified with the spirit of European legislation — has 
been responded to il»ou^out all civilised communities. 

' Democracy has worked its way into every empire ; it has made 
the tyrant tremble, but it has .not appalled the enlightened states- 
man ; it has borne into every constitutional country the noble 

p2 



212 DEMOCBACT IN 1847, 

maxims of political, ciyil, and religious equality, and its battles 
with existing wrongs have been bloodless. 

They who obstinately cling to a past state of things and regret 
the decadence of old institutions only because they were old, and 
they who, being interested in the continuance of laws pressing 
upon the poorer classes of the kingdom uphold those laws, call 
democracy the discontented clamour of an ignorant rabble. Be 
it so. Let us even judge the rulers and the ruled by this debasing 
principle — let us for a moment suppose democracy to be the 
clamour of ignorant discontent ; and what is to be said in justifi- 
cation of the party in power ? Simply this— that this ignorance^ 
this discontent, and this clamour are part and parcel of the conse> 
quences of their misgovemment. To speak in homely metaphor^ 
what would be said of the man, who, having taken his children'^ 
blankets in addition to his own, upbraided them because they 
complained of the cold? We should assuredly call the fellow & 
senseless tyrant. 

However, the democrat is no longer a suspected ignoramus— a 
dangerous man ; he is only obnoxious to those persons who would 
lose their unfair privileges and immunities by the restoration of 
his rights. He is an enemy to those who have wronged the 
lower orders : he is an enemy to titled arrogance. 

It has been urged in justification of the present state of the 
law as regards property, entail, and prunogeniture, that this 
nation, under these laws, has risen to a higher state of civilisation 
than any kingdom upon the face of the earth. This plausible 
plea has little real weight. The question is, whether better laws 
would not have induced a still higher degree of prosperity and of 
refinement in this country— whether the French law of succession 
would not have spared England all those degrading pictures of 
starvation in the midst of boundless wealth — of beggars crouching 
in the doorways of teeming palaces. True is it that in England 
the arts and sciences have made giant strides, outstripping foreign 
progress ; but it is as true that this grand development of art and 
science has been made, not for the benefit of the people generally, 
but at their expense and as the luxury of the privileged few. This 
exclusive policy — solely owing to the concentration of property 
into few hands — gives to a nation the appearance of splendour and 
prosperity without the solid foundation of either opulence or 
internal peace — it is the policy of a slovenly mother who washes 
her child's face and hands and leaves the brat's body uncleansed. 



•DEMOCRACY IN 1847. 213 

Indisputable facts demonstrate most clearly that the concentration 
of wealth has changed the relative strength of the different 
elements of power, leaving the grand body of the people without 
«ny other defence than the inevitable influence of a free internal 
spirit. In 1815 the properties of 250,000 families had, within 
the space of forty years, been concentrated in the hands of 32,000 
proprietors ; and so 218,000 families had in the above space of 
time lost their influence in the conduct of the state. This was 
aristocratic policy worthy of its progenitors — it was endured 
silently. 

The land of France belongs to fifteen or twenty millions of 
peasants who cultivate it ; the soil of England is the exclusive 
property of thirty-two thousand aristocrats who hire men to culti- 
yate it. 

"If we would know the inmost thought, the passion of the 
•peasant, it is very easy. Walk, any Sunday, into the country, 
and follow him. Look ! there he is yonder before us ! It is two 
o'clock ; his wife is at vespers ; and he is in his Sunday clothes. 
I warrant you he is going to see his mistress. 

** What mistress ? — His land. * * * 

" It is probable he will not work ; but what prevents him from 
plucking up a weed, or throwing aside a stone ? And then that 
old stump looks ugly ; but he has not his spade ; that must wait 
till to-morrow. Then he folds his arms, stops, looks serious and 
thoughtful ; he looks a long, long time, and seems to forget him- 
self : at last, if he fancies himself overlooked, if he perceives any- 
thing passing, he moves slowly away ; after a few steps, he stops, 
turns round, and casts upon his land one last profound and 
melancholy look : but, to the keen-sighted; that look is full of 
passion, full of heart, full of devotion. If that be not love, by 
what token shall we know it in this world ? It is love ! — do not 
laugh — the land will have it so, in order to produce ; otherwise 
this poor land of France, almost without cattle and pasture, would 
yield nothing ; it brings forth because it is loved." * 

This picture is true to human nature. There is a love of inde- 
pendence implanted in the breast of every human being ; the 
most hardened miscreant covets liberty. The knowledge that he 
is in the power — at the mercy of his master — debases the work- 
man. The workman, who owns not even the battered hut he lives 

* Michelet's « People." 



214 DEMOCRACY IN 1847. 

m, is, in point of fact, little better than a slave. He has his 
muscle — ^his industry ; and these possessions are marketable. 
True. StUl he is the mere tool of his employer ; his master may 
send him adrift to-mwrow. Labour certainly is wealth ; but 
labour cannot, like com and eoak, be bandied from land to land 
m search of its miurket ; and herein lies the differenee^ The 
labourer has a wife and family ; he has lived in the parish of 
Bewdrop some twenty years ; he offends his employer ; he is 
dismissed. There is no other employment to be had in the neigh- 
bourhood. What altematiye has he ? He must fill the craving 
stomachs of his family. He removes to another neighbourhood ; to 
Smmnerly.. He lives at Summerly dm'ing two years, when labour 
.again failing, he trudges on elsewhere, a mere machine, whose 
muscle produces what its master chooses to pay for it. Does this 
man participate in the vaunted civilisation of England ? — and of 
how large a class of the British c(»nmunity is he a type ? Yet 
this man pays larger taxes in proportion than the landed pro- 
prietor who employs him. When property became concentrated in 
few hands, the larger number of the community became dependent 
upon the lesser number, and therefore powerless ; and the landed 
propraetors, conscious of their power, and alive to their individual 
interests, have not scrupled to indulge their selfish, and grasping^ 
propensities at the expense of dependent millions. It is the masses 
— the mai who own not a rush in the land beyond their daily 
jeamings — ^who support the boasted dignity and supremacy of this 
country, as they ^e at the feet of the 'Manded gentry." In 
1792 it was resolved to effect the division of common lands, and 
aceoidiiigly a bill was passed, which enacted that they slK)uld be 
bestowed on the richest landlords, because such persona could, 
with the- greatest facility, bring them into cultivation ! Mark 
well the spirit of this wicked enactment. It professed to operate 
{or the general welfare of the state, while it gave the land belong- 
ing to the people at large to a few rich proprietors ; it deprived 
the peasants of those free spots where they had gathered firewood 
and fed their pigs, &c. ; in shcHi;, it cconpleted the dependence of 
ihe poorer classes. Pitt's ministry saw the property of the king- 
dom — ^its wealth and power— concentrated in some few hundred 
families, and the House of Commons no longer r^nesented the 
people of England. The equality of power was destroyed. The 
proprietary class prospered, and the mass of the people were im- 
poverished and uninfluential in the state. The taxes were wrung 



DBMOCRACr IK- 1847. 215 

from the poorer classes, and land was untouched. The Com L&if8 
inereased the rents of the landlords ; and, under the/ pretext of 
securing: thet nation against the evils of scareitj (but in.reaittj^to 
maintain the largeness of the rents), premiums,. sometimes equal to 
aa eighth' part of the price, have been granted on the exportaiidon 
of com. The neoessities of the poor are. taxedv and the* landed 
proprietors are untaxed. Thus the burden of the stoite falls upea 
the grand mass of the community, while the opuleub class mono«^ 
polise state pow^, without so<much as contributing their faia* shace 
to the demands of the legislature. 

The Reform !l^ cannot, must not be a final measore* Bl&dhk- 
stone tells us that the true excellence of the Briti^ government 
consists in this — *^ that the people are a check upon the nobilkj', 
and the nobilitj a check upon the people, by the mutual privilege 
of rejecting what the other has resolved, while the king is a cbeck 
npon^ both, which preserves the executive pow^^ from encroach- 
ment." Herein we have a clear definitbn of the government this 
country professes to adhere to. But can it be said that the> Com- 
mons, as at pres^it constituted, are the representalftves of the 
people> checkings the interested motives of the« upper House ? Do 
we not know that the members of the lower House are for- the 
most part men of large properties, commanding the vote» of th^ir 
dependent tenants ? Are they not as much the aristocracy as 1^ 
peers of the realm? Are they not the yotmger sons of rich 
peers, or the protigges of some "noble house?" Thew aa?e 
brilliant exceptions in the House, and all honour be imth them ; 
b»t it is nevertheless a grievous fact, that the present constiituency 
of England do not fairly represent ike masses of the country. 

It is most true that this country is a glorious beacon of intel- 
lectuallight to other counlaies — aHghthouse amongst the nations, 
guiding them to harbours of noble workmanship ; but the- simile 
h<^ds good in other respects : her inteUectual lights are built upon 
a dangerous — a yawning quicksand. H. Passy says well : ** Wo 
be to those nations where the magnificence of the few displays 
itself at the expense of the greater number." The democracy of 
this country consists of the injured classes. The democrat is 
the man who, being called upon to obey the laws of England, 
and to pay for the enforcement of those laws, is nevertheless 
without a vote. He is a democrat who recognises the equal rights 
of man ; who agrees, that all who are called upon to obey the laws 
and to contribute money for their enforcement, should have some 



216 DEKOCRACY IN 1847. 

voice in tlie creation of the statutes tHej are called upon to main- 
tain. A nation is a large insurance company ; the parliament, 
the board of directors. I will only ask, what would any reason- 
able or just man say, if he, being a member of the said company, 
though he held but the puniest share, were denied the privilege 
of voting for members of the board. The constitution of England 
in its integrity is a parallel case : it yet denies the member his 
vote. The aristocracy of this country have long made a good 
harvest : they have wrung the honey from the vast hive, leaving 
little for the working bees ; but the bees are now wide awake, 
and the drones must beware. There is a spirit abroad that will 
not be hushed : it cries for justice to all classes ; it demands 
universal suffrage ; it demands a tax on property ; it will no 
longer consent to bear the burden of the state alone ; it will have 
religious liberty. 

Soon a new parliament will be assembled — a parliament, chosen 
it is said by the people of England. How many of these picked 
men owe their seats to their monetary influence or to aristocratic 
birth, we will not here determine ; but this we know, democracy 
is abroad : it is the active principle acknowledged throughout 
England ; it is making giant progress in France ; it is vital in the 
spirit of Germany ; in Italy the Pope acknowledges the sove- 
reignty of the people. There is an unconquerable demand for 
radical reform ; the people have, in a measure, educated them- 
selves ; they now fully understand their position ; they know right 
from wrong, and they will have right ; — ^in short, you should con 
this attentively, new members of parliament — the people of Eng- 
land will not be contented if you only cure their warts : you must 
root out the ulcers. There is a mighty spirit at work throughout 
the land, that calls for the destruction of the ulcers which disfigure 
the British constitution : give heed unto the just askings of this 
giant spirit, for it has right on its side and it will not be hushed* 



217 



CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS; 

BSINO 

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE WHITTINGTON FUND. 



-♦- 



No. III.— THE ENTERTAINMENT. 

The House arranged — ^the complement of Members filled up, 
with anxious hundreds waiting for admission (our Club not being 
quite as expansive as the tent of Pari-Banou) — the matter, thirdly, 
to be treated, is the Entertainment of the Guests. In mj treat- 
ment of this, more tlian of any other clause of my homily, shall I be 
esteemed crotchetty ; since here have the infinite yarieties of taste 
and humour to be provided for : and it is the luck (shall I call it?) 
of those who are tolerant in great matters, to be, sometimes, siagu- 
larly hard to please, and full of conceit, when legislating for the 
small concerns of daily life and occupation. 

Matters of entertainment comprehend food for the body — ^food 
for the mind — ^food for the fancy ; and the consideration thereof 
will lead us from "the basement story " upstairs, with a peep at 
the Library in passing — to the Drawing-room, which may by 
courtesy be called ** The Ladies' Chamber." It is needless to re- 
iterate, that the motto of a popular club must be " Economy and 
Comfort." To attempt to control the kitchen by any dietary 
statutes, were indeed an impertinence, "which excels my power.'* 
— We may have desperate members rushing in and calling for 
oysters (as Mr. Weller assures us is the wont of such) at that very 
jimctmre of the year when ** the natives " are coy, not to say 
inaccessible : and are said desperate members to perish by the 
formality of a statute ? Forbid it, Social Citizenship ! We may 
have jovial souls, resolved upon "a gaudy day," when two puddings 
shall smoke upon the board — and is our Cook to be inaugurated 
with some medal, a la M<xthew, which shall preclude such a spice, 
or so much more citron, on pain of loss of her place ? This were 
to make Cheapness and Pauperism synonymous — our Club, a sort 
of Whittington Union, where people were "allowanced," and 
gentlemen rated according to their tastes and appetites. And 
exclusiveness, as I pointed out last month, whether dictated by 



218 CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 

Pinery or Asceticism, is not a thing which can he endured. Still, 
as self-govemment is the vital principle of Popular Concord, it 
seems to me that Simplicity and Plenty in the larder and at the 
tahle . will suffice as the general rule, oi entertainment, if our 
memhers will clear their heads of all possihle rivaby with the 
luxurious estahlishments (some of which live on, like other Person- 
ages of Pashion, hy grace of their credltoia), — or unless we are so 
unlucky as to entertain "unawares,'* not Angels, hut Dandos. — 
The profoundest gastronomists, I might add — with Mr. Walker of 
" The Original" at their head — ^will hear me out in comforting 
Aose who demand good eating, hy assuring them that they need 
k)se nothing, hecanse they have not a Soyer to- contrive Sampayo 
SQuff^s and Cerito creams, — this new epigramme witjh olives in 
honour of an Elihu Burritt, or the other pctte^de BiUdngsgate to 
selemniset the glorious day when Game Laws shall have '^ died the 
dea^."^ — Thiey will stand hy me in saying, that, there are heauties 
in "plain roast and hoiled," which Englishmen love and French- 
men do not hate ! — ^But I scorn this tampering with epicurism: 
since refined Selfishness may go as far and prove as treuhlesome 
when in quest of simplicity as of Apician comhinations. I trust in 
the good sense of " The Committee of Taste," that it will forbear 
from wooing Self-indulgence, while it gratifies every reasonable 
desire :— rl trust in that gentlwnanly conformity to circumstances, 
on the part of the members, which honourable persoii^ will ever 
show : and in which, moreover, they will find the permanency of 
their home, and the comfort of "their board'* (to use the prim 
phrase of the Idyliists) assured. 

Yet, permit me, while on the important question of meats^ Mid 
the simplicity thereof, episodically to call attention to one or two 
very profound truths. It is possible that as a nation^ we EngMah 
are only begriming' to emerge from barbarism in our culinary usages^ 
The ancient English Cook was a hot and hasty creature : given to 
the administration of " many pepper " (as a Gennan friend of mine 
phrased it) in her sauces ; begbming-to cook her dinner at the time 
when a !FVeneh practdtioner was coneludtbg the process : and sustain*- 
ing her life in face of a furious fire by aid of cordials and strong 
waters. There was no science save " rule of thumb * ' — and as little 
ec<momyin her proceedings. The GaUie Artist, on the other side, was 
** a man of parts,** and as many words as parts, — ^in a white night- 
eap : whose " visions of the head upon his bed " were of the- s^er- 
noon's dinner : and iiriio began to light the charcoal under his 



CLUB-CBOTCHETS AHD CHEAP COMFORTS. 219 

eartken pipkins, and to '' taste and trj*' Hs compotrnds, early in the 
day — ^being philosophically aware, as a great authjority once aaid;, 
that *' whereas Man may improvise a Sonnet — an Angel cannot 
extemporize a Soup ! " Hence, with a full aad experimental eonr 
seiousness of the hideous things which may he said concerning the 
£llh of a French kitchen — and the '' strange flesh " laid upon the 
table — there is no denying that there is much to he gathered from 
oar neighbours, if we will only lay by our insensate pride in roast- 
beef and pium-pudxiing. Saying of money, sparing of healthy 
eultiyation of temperance, maintenance of temper and mutual 
Tespeet, are imrolv^ more than appears at flcs^ sight, in the 
planning of the Cook*s domain, and in her cuhiyatio&of somethkig 
belter than the patriarchal pig-headed resistanoe to << foretgn 
messes. ' ' Every now and then, the march of events makes & breach 
in the wall of eyen kitchen prejudke. A Fortmie comes home^fi^om 
China ; and behold new yegetables for the pot ! There is & mere* 
meitt among the makers of cofifee-pots which forees us nearer the 
strength of the Turks, or the clearness of the Palais E<^aL 
From time to time, too, Mother Nature takes part in the com'- 
pulsory difihsion of knowledge. Blighting our potato crop, she 
drives us upon the Brahmin's resonrce, rice ; or biddeth us lean 
on the sta£E of Brother Jonathan, which is n&atze. Would it not 
be well, then^ while we disclaim all pretentions to a Ude, or to a 
Soyer with his poetry and phiknihropy and his pictm-e gallery, — 
to proyide> in our arrangements, for culinary enlightenment ; to 
keep a corner in our ceflar, (figuratively), for^ beverages, whieh» 
thirty years ago, the men of England, were used' tO' speak of as 
philtres or dangerous draughts — ^fatal to our honssty and nation* 
ality. Fort and Porter are stately and stout dmks i — John 
Barleycorn and John Bull haye an afiinity which will not be 
diesolyed while the life and soul of London hold togeth^. All 
due reverence and respect be paid them : — ^but let us not forrthis^ 
BOUT with our contempt, the wines of the Black Forest, or the 
Bhine, or the South of France ; nor becaaae Free Trade is makmg 
them cheapo, and Foreign Enterprise "laying down," year* by 
year, a better quality, at a mere attainable figure, speak of thaflt 
as "trash," "yerjuice," rubbish only fit t& make, vinegar of. 
We caA no more shut out the z»w liquors, than we ean exckde 
^ those foreigners*' ' Let us, therefore, meet them, make ^e best of 
them: and keep as far from stupid bigotry, as from greediness or 
opieurism ; r^saembering, aH the while> that, whereas a Eitchoii 



220 CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMPORTS. 

Committee represents its constituents, it is, also, not without 
power to influence them. The consequence of meats and drinks to 
the formation and development of national character — and to the 
cementing of cluh concord, is a suhject, at once too delicate and 
momentous to he " fillipped away " at the end of a paragraph — 
calling for a Charles Lamh, or a Titmarsh. Failing these 
greater lights, I may, some future day, trouhle the world with 
my tediousness over the matter of Macaroni, and my ** fifty 
reasons " why every house should have, if not its ** fowl in the 
pot *' so liberally desired by the French King — its pot au feUj 
which the French Cottager can manage. But that must be when 
space and leisure are more plentiful than at present. A hurried 
consideration of table matters tendeth, as the Abernethys wiU 
also declare, towards indigestion. Banter apart — whether as 
regards expense or comfort — or the easy working together of 
masters and servants, the matters I have been trifling with, claim 
in their arrangement, a sense, a liberality, and an experimental 
knowledge, which do not belong to the old English World 
below stairs. 

And now, from material to intellectual provision: — from the 
Bill of fare, to the table in the Reading Room. There is small 
doubt that the tastes of the generality will be sufficiently con- 
sulted in the furnishing of this : — financial limits being duly 
respected. One could make a list at a moment's call of the perio- 
dicals and productions sure to be in request. One knows what 
newspaper will never be ** out of hand " — ^what '* serial publica- 
tions '* will be thumbed into a state of ruin which might content 
the author of authors most desirous of popular acceptance ! So 
that, to pretend to offer contributions towards a list of " things 
wanted," would be a labour very nearly as absurd as the ordering 
of banquets a la Barmecide for the benefit of sturdy and well- 
appetized youths, resolute to ** dine ofl" the joint** at once heartily 
and cheaply. But I have my crotchet, about what may be called 
I^Q furniture-reading of a Cheap Club, which I will freely give up 
to the ridicule of all "good laughers :' * — content, if one sober thinker 
sees something in it. Our Club is not a party business : not a 
"Crow Club" where the person croaking the loudest against 
Popery is the great man of the assembly — not an artisan's associa- 
tion, where he who, like Sir Walter Scott in the coach, is unable 
to say something about "bend leather," is set down as a dull 
fellow — neither is it a gathering of which " the Duke" and "Lord 



CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFOaTSL 221 

Nelson" are the two shibboleths : Btill less a circle of travellers, 
exclading ererything which moves near the home-centre, and 
esteeming worthy him alone who has climhed the Himalaya Moun- 
tains, or ** looked in'* at Sarawak, or fraternised with the Yladika 
of Montenegro. — It is a gathermg of men of all sorts and condi- 
tions, hound together hy a feeling of the duty, the necessity, and 
the feasibility of progress ; and, therefore, desiring information as 
much as sympathy, from the world without. I should like to see 
this, in some sort, practically, not pictures(|uely expressed, in the 
Reading Room. I should like that some small, yet constant pro- 
vision should be made for hearing << the other side." It seema a 
Hibernian counsel to say that I am for having the paper which is 
* * voted out, * ' kept in * * on principle ! ' ' — ^whether as a reminder of our 
own superiority,. or an alterative when we wax arrogant— whether 
as an eye-hole through which we may peep into the enemy's camp* 
or a magnifier, turned fiill on our own beauties and blemishes. It 
seems to me that such a principle of selection, temperately, not 
fanatically recognised, must be productive of enlightenment and 
interest — must bring into the entire compound a flavour of indepen- 
dence, totally different from that quarrelsome haste, which makes 
A. never content save he is cat-echizing B's dog-ma — must, in 
short, redound to the good of every one concerned. The sugges- 
tion will be called Quixotic, random, a *' strengthening of the hands 
of our oppressors," and many hard and half-true names besides ! 
No matter, it is now on paper ; and if Mr. Goldthumb only be 
&und to read it, in some contemplative hour when he is taking 
imusual pains over his trunk lining, he may retail it to his son, 
who may pass it off as his own when and wheresoever he pleases ; — 
so but it be spread as a truth worth considering, that it may be as 
well, sometimes, to study the things we disagree, as well as those 
we agree, with. 

The last matter of entertainment I shall here consider, is pos- 
sibly the least important, because most beyond the sphere of ordinary 
club-usage and routine ; and to- be dispensed with, without the 
stability or usefulness of the establishment being, in any respect, 
impaired. Old-fashioned members, indeed, wiU object to any set 
evening meetings or parties, as much as I object to the appellation 
soirie (a word, very like the copper lace on a stage-dress, 
methinks) But the number of old-fashioned members, who con- 
ceive that a Club means gregarious unsociability, wDl not, I fancy, 
be overwhelming ; whereas, the. number of those wiUing to enter- 



222 CLCBr^CBOTOHSTS AND CHEAP COMFOI^S. 

torn each oliber .mid to be entertained, is likely to increase, if the 
tiling be .proyed >pra(^cable— ydthout involving too nmdi ceremoay 
or 4oo much faoniliaidtj. — Wh&re there are large rooms, well^lighted^ 
large parties seem .a .naimral consequence ; and to these the new 
sm^itifiC'difiaovery is pretty anre to be brought, and at these the 
new deugaibr a building, or the new pattmn of manufacture^ maj 
be exhibited, withoati in the slightest degree, tvennhing upon 
the ^province of the learned Societies, wJiose business it is — as 
gome onoihas saucily said— 4lo be '' dull and deliberative." 

'The .&i3t oonditiouiof a party is, that no one should be '^bored.** 
Menee, I have a certain fear of too long orationfi-»of readingg 
aloiid~-«are they be mercifully administer^. With many, I have 
observed, all such formal pleasures produce an immediate and 
Fobellious desire io ** express themselves in talk," which is sadly 
irntating to atll parties. When money lias been paid, an EngHsh 
audience wi^Z hme its mon^s worth, and heroically exhibit its 
pakienee tfll the ubtermost farthing has been ** worked. out," — 'in 
tboB respect, however, yielding the pahn to the Americans, who 
seem to have .an .appetiste for leetures and preachments which 
nolliing caai satisfy—^and to the (ilermans, who wiU ^bide fomr 
houi« of comedies — so called-^the dreary pedantry of which, i^ 
enough to drive ^a lively-spirited pers(m distracted. But whrae 
iltere is no idaaiof ''' sale and barter," tediousness becomes em. un* 
pardonable ofionce ; and Folly, made strong by fancied persecution 
and by the:oontagiou6nessof distaste, is apt to .take matters into 
her own hands, and threw «the best managed meeting into discord* 
Scmiefthing of 9po]ztaneousn»sais>as necessary to Booiety, laa brevity 
is to Wit. 

While, however, too inordinate .a quantity of IiBstruotion is not 
to be let loose against innoe^it persons met for the purposes of 
amusement, — ^let it never be forgotten, that unless there be a 
dispomtiontoTaisethe tone- of mixed society, it is apt to degenerate, 
till the 'better tdass of peraons .drops away from it ; finding books 
at home, or the society of its own thoughts, better than ** the 
crackling of rthorns sunder a pot." Let us never drivel to ihe 
dead Uwl of fashionable Inanity wJbicih leaves the Drama of 
Sngland alone : and rtnhesUa see half-a-dozen men with blackened 
faces, talking a gibberidl wdoiich is the language of no people 
under tibie sim, and making ;unoouth grimaces and uncouth 
noises, oinder pretence 'Of<MuBic. To come to my point, when we 
deal with Art> — let us especially remember that^ in its pleasant 



GLTJB-eBOTOHETS AKD CHEAP COMFORTS. 223 

way, Art is a Teacher, and should not therefore he treated as a 
Bidfbon, fit only to minister to vnlgar curiosity or vacant laughter ! I 
should, hardly, have laid stress on this matter, had I not ohsenred 
it most strangely, and exceptionahly neglected, in the very -places, 
where the recogmtion of a hotter principle alone, was the solitary 
excuse for Art's introduction : — I mean in some of our Scientific and 
Literary Institutions. The Directing Oommittees of these would 
redden, like persons insuHed, were one to reoommezid for the 
delectation of their memhers, on^any given evening, a reading of 
" The Red Barn/' or a dissertation on " Thomas and Jeremiah " 
(to give the old extraioaganza as dignified a style and title as pos- 
sihle !). Think, again, how a ^uhHc of Art-Unionists would he 
insulted, were one to hring in for the edification of a soiree a tray 
of nodding Grimalkins, or green Parrots, or tombolas ! But, the 
Music too often introduced on like occasions, is of its kind, little 
less trashy, than the matters just named would he. Yet no one 
oeems outraged : — and, for aught I know, I shall he set down as 
professionally ^pedantic — a croto^6^monger this time, <with a 

rengeanoe ! for saying, that now is the moment, when an 

effort, genile, hut notidespotic, may he made to raise the taste in 
this 'as in erery other transaction *df and appendage to our da% 
life. There shoiild he a 'wide difierenoe hetween the scope and 
style of the singing at a Cyder Cellar (no contempt of this — coarse 
and aimless, tiiough it seems !) and the song at a Whittington 
smree I Let it he > ako noted; that -the miusicians are ^ of all classes 
of artists, :&e most-unhappilv prone to condescend, forthe purposes 
of innnediate effect: and that to this is mainly ascrrihahle the 
disrespect in which their calling «o long lay in England. *So, that 
tiiose having authority will 'do well perpetueOly to lean in a con- 
trary direction : and while they avoid with pious horror, every 
chance of honmg their clients, may safely helie^e that the latter 
are more capahle of enjoying what is good, than they were. The 
old Yauxhall halkd, the foolish ditty with which a Mrs. Fuggleston 
or a Miss SmveHiceioould twenty years ago, hid all the sticks and 
nmhrellas in the upper gdllery " hreak out a-fresh " — ^poetically 
vulgar and musioally ungrammatical-^are no longer the only spe^ 
cimens of ** sound married to sense " which the young men and 
maidens of JBngland can relish and enjoy ! 

But I stop — having «aid enough for those who undeerstand me — 
and too much for such as arodistnstfuli^inor^mei^^in the cellar, 
and new-^fangled French imio^ations in the kitchen— «uch as would 



224 A WORD OR TWO ON GENIUS. 

only allow their side a representation in the Reading Room — and 
would keep the Drawing-room quiet and empty — because " they 
hate crowds." In time, they may be made to acquiesce in, if not 
to enjoy, the schemes of Entertainment above outlined : howsoever 
disposed they be for the moment to receive them with dear Mr. 
Burchell's monosyllable. 

It but remains for me, to offer a few suggestions, as to the manner 
in which the above invaluable hints and excellent provisions can 
be forwarded and wrought out, by the Behaviour of the Members 
of our Cheap Club. 



A WORD OR TWO ON GENIUS. 

It is somewhat difficult to give an accurate definition of a 
principle so deep and subtle as that of genius. Perhaps we may 
not be wrong in describing it, as a power enabling its possessor 
to accomplish by a kind of mental instinct, those things which lie 
beyond the reach of the more laborious efforts of less gifted minds. 
It seems to be compounded of the most keen intuition and the 
most ardent love for the objects of its exercise, and to take equal 
root in the intellect and the feeling. The characteristics which 
distinguish it from mere talent, may not, perhaps, be obvious to 
a casual observer, but the most decided difference nevertheless 
exists. Talent is a particle of the niind ; a faculty limited to the 
comprehension of one, or more subjects. Genius is the tone, the 
character, the complexion of the whole mind ; the amalgamation 
of thought, fancy, taste, and sensibility ; a creative energy, that 
admits of no partial exercise of its powers. Talent may be con- 
sidered as a piece of mental machinery, which may be put in 
motion independently of the sympathy and co-operation of the 
imagination or the feeling ; genius may lie dormant, like rich 
ore in the mine, till application and labour have dug out the gold 
and impressed on it the stamp which entitles it to the recognition 
and esteem of men, but it must be the application of the heart — 
the " labour of love" — it will not work till the "grand agent '* 
has been applied — tiU the Promethean spark has fired the train 
of feeling, which then lives and breathes in the characters of 
Expression, immortal in its nature, whether it speaks in the 



o 



A WORD 0» TWO ON GENIUS. 225 

truthful tints of the canras, the changeless heauties of the marhle 
goddess, or the huming words that stir the deep and hidden 
springs of the heart. Talent may ho engaged on subjects of a 
purely practical nature, totally uncongenial with the spiritual 
essence we call soul. Genius draws its nourishment from the 
love of the beautiful, which is both its guiding star and sister 
spirit, and through that wide and rich field loves she to stray, 
finding sweet companionship in every form and hue and tone of 
loveliness or grandeur. Genius is versatile and comprehensive in 
its energies on those, subjects which possess power or beauty 
sufficient to attract its eagle-gaze, but like that proud bird, it 
refuses to unclose its wing for an ignoble quarry. This, perhaps, 
may in some measure account for the tardiness and partiality 
with which its influence is sometimes acknowledged. Genius can 
Qnly be fully appreciated by intellect of a corresponding order, 
and the mole-eyed pl^der through the world's mud, regards as 
folly, those soarino^s m the spirit which extend beyond the limits 
of Ms own clay-bom sympathies. 

It is remarkable how slight a thing, to outward seeming, will 
awaken the slumbering power of genius ; the accent of a voice, 
the beaming of an eye, the rustling of a leaf, the falling of water, 
the twinkling of a star, are each and all as so many keys of the 
delicate instrument. Burns attributes his first inspiration to the 
*' witching smile and pauky een '' of his winsome partner in the 
harvest field ; and it was the mute, but eloquent, encouragement 
of a mother's kiss, that dipped the brush of West in immortal 
colours. We should conceive it hardly possible for genius to 
dwell in the mind of any one, without the consciousness of its 
presence ; still, we see that it is almost invariably accompanied by 
a child-like simplicity and* a modest estimation of its efforts. It 
does not follow, that where genius exists it must necessarily be 
expressed. 

*^ Many are poets who have never penned 
Their mspiration, and perhaps the best — '* 

their quick sympathy with the lovely, the humorous, and the 
ideal, and their devoted attachment to spirits of a kindred glow, 
constituting the tie of brotherhood with those who have tasted the 
sweet vanity of Fame. Men of genius have ever felt a sensitive 
anxiety as to the success of their works ; and the dread of attract- 
ing the fierce notice of some critical hawk, may have pushed into 
fiilence the sweet melody of many a "native wood-note wild," 

NO. XXXin. — ^VOL. VI, Q 



226 A WOBD OB TWO OS OSNIUSU 

and repressed many a tuneful record of the heart's erentful his* 
torj. To witness, unmoYod, the wanton disparagement or craol 
calomniation of labours which have been sustained by hope and 
enthusiasm — ^to gaze calmly on the ruins of the bright fabric of 
expectations cherished so fondly and so long, is more than can be 
Expected firom sueh a mental constitution, and there haye been 
those who, with a poisoned sling in their hearts, have turned 
firom an imfeeling world, to hide in secret the pang by which 
ihey died. Speak, shaded of injured and departed genius ! has 
it not been thus with you ? It would ^e superfluous to ask 
whether happiness can be compatible with overwrought suscept* 
ibility ; greatness of mind, as well as that of any other kind, 
must pay the price of its distinction, and the man of genius laya 
as much claim to our respect and veneration for his peculiar and 
unapproachable sorrows, as to our admiration of his brilliant and 
tmattainable powers. We do not here allude to the trials and 
griefs of humanity generally, of which he Tias his full share, in 
common with other men, but to that fever of the soul, that un* 
slaked thirst of a heart which lives in a world of its own imagin- 
ings, too high and pure to be realised, and which at the moment 
of his proudest triumph, tells him that he is still — alone, — and he 
turns for a solace and companionship to the bright aerial shapes 
which minister to the yearnings of las unsatisfied heart, holdn^ 
intercourse with them, till 

^ Of its own beauty is the mind diseased 
And fevers into false creation. Where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ! ** 

This is the unmistakeable badge which Genius sets on all her 
children ; however they may diiSer in other respects, they ail 
bear a heart scorched with the flame of her own passion, felt 
alike by him who has moved a nation's sympathies, and him who, 

<< All unknown, 
Sleeps with 1h' inglorious dead, 
Forgot and gone.*' 

There is a tendency in this matter-of-fact age to undervalue 
those things which have no direct practical bearing — to consider 
nothing important which is not visible and tangible ; imaginatioii 
seems frightened back to her own sunny skies, by the rush and 
roar of i& '* go-ahead " wodd, and thai kind of literature i^peara 






A WORD OR TWO ON GENIUS. 227 

to be most popidar which professes to bring eyerything down to 
the understandmg, rather than to exercise the spiritual faculties 
in their native regions. The same erroneous idea, we think, 
prevails in the system of instruction generally ; instead of letting 
a child feel its own powers, and rerel in infantile delight at the 
unexplained wond^i» and fresh beauties which at once solicit and 
expand its mind, it must be early taught to become a '* useful 
member of society," by having its little brain oppressed by an 
incubus of technical terms or pedantic phrases, and be compelled 
to acquire, by close and irksome attention, things which Nature 
would, at her own best time, instil with gentle yet impressive 
touch. We confess, we cannot in every respect accord with the 
oft-expressed sentiment, ** What great educational advantages are 
enjoyed by children in the present day ?" In what do they con- 
sist ? — ^in forcing open with a hasty hand the young and tender 
buds of mind? — in creating an unhealthy and injudicious emula- 
tion in precocious attainments ? — in exhausting the mental soil by 
crops too heavy for it ? Should we consider him wise, who would 
endeavour to plant an oak in a flower-pot ? and is it quite judi- 
cious or beneficial to cloud the open brow of childhood with 
mannish thoughts, and to shadow with worldly wisdom, faces 
which " should not have borne this aspect yet for many a year ? '* 
The mental standard of succeeding generations must be the answer 
to these questions. The greatest men of whom the world could 
ever boast, have declared, at the close of their laborious lives, 
that they knew nothing. Poor neglected souls ! We dare say 
there were no " Pestalozzian Systems" in their day, or ** Philo- 
mathic Societies," where sages, ten years old, revealed the hidden 
forms of Truth, or they would never have died in such a lamentable 
state of ignorance. 

Let us return from this digression, and pay a visit to the 

studio of during his absence. Arrived at the top of the 

dark garret stairs, we open a low door, and there stands before 
us a work which turns the wretched attic into a temple ; we 
are breathing an air hallowed by the presence of Soul personified, 
and we instinctively uncover, while gazing with mingled vener 
ration and rapture on the more than mortal beauty which 
hushes, as it were, the very beating of our heart. The door 
opens and the artist enters ; he sees us not, but seating himself 
languidly and wearily, he regards with a mournful expression 
the beauteous offspring of his invagination ; give it but a tongue^ 

q2 



228 A WORD OB TWO OlT GENIUS. 

und it would tell how that pale cheek was once wont to flush with 
hope and pride — it would tell what sighs had burst from that 
breast in which despondency has crushed enthusiasm — ^what unseen 
tears have fallen from those eyes, now lustrous with the light of 
the tomb. Silently we withdraw; and, giving a passing glance 
into the adjoining room^ we see poverty and sickness draining the 
life-blood of those dearest to him on earth, thus completing an 
amount of suffering which may perhaps,' ere long, be terminated 
by the poison-cup or pistol. Oh, fatal gift ! who would covet 
thee at such a fearful price ? 

<< One breast laid open, were a school 

, Which would unteach mankind the wish to shine or role." 

Does any utilitarian put the favourite question, '' Cui bono," to the 
efforts of genius ? Does he ask in his heart, what business such a 
man has in this world ? Doubtless there are moments when, in 
bitterness of spirit, the man of genius asks himself the same 
question ; when high thoughts are contending with paltry necessi- 
ties ; when^ with ill-concealed disgust, he distinguishes the cring- 
ing homages which follow the track of men's doltish idol — wealth; 
when, feeling himself to be compounded of contradictions in all 
things relative to his well-being, he asks himself — " To what end 
was such a one created? ** We will answer the question for 
him. He was created to work up and spread the leaven of Mind 
through the lumpish mass of human clay — to reveal man to him- 
self in the faithful mirror of his own brilliant thoughts — to open a 
channel for pent-up woe, breaking up its stubborn hold, and 
drawing it forth with melodious murmurings to the relief of the 
overcharged breast — to touch with softening finger the harsh 
features of relentless sorrow, throwing a heavenly light over the 
heart's wintry landscape, like to the sunbeams breaking through the 
dark masses in the stormy west — ^to water with refreshing streams 
the scorched verdure of the soul, that haply one green spot might 
escape the desolation of the spoiler — ^to knit spirit to spirit with a 
bond electrical and indissoluble, and to bequeath to his native land 
a ray of that glory which exalts her amongst nations* If men 
truly estimated the worth of such minds, and were aware how much 
they are indebted to them, would they allow the man of genius to 
struggle unassisted through trials he is ill-adapted to encounter ? 
Would they permit his heart to sink for lack of kindness, sympathy, 
and encouragement, which would cost them but little, but which 



TOUNO WATSON. 229 

would be deeply appreciated by him ? Would they suffer the dark 
clouds of anxious care and threatening want to shut out the light of 
joy and hope from his morning sky ? No ! instead of placing a 
pillar of stone over his grief-worn remains, resting in that dream- 
less sleep long coveted as his only refuge, they would have placed 
on his barren table the essentials of existence ; instead of gratify- 
ing their sight-seeing propensities with the view of apartments in 
which inspiration and suffering had long dwelt together unnoticed 
and unknown, they would have clothed their desolate walls with 
comforts which would have brightened the dim eyes of their cheer- 
less inmates, ere death had sealed them for ever ! Not that we 
object to the veneration and honour which posterity justly pays to 
the memory of the great : far from it ; but we say, ** Do the one 
and leave not the other undone ; " revere the mighty dead, but 
remember the suffering living ! " The heart knows its own bitter- 
ness," and its chiefest sorrow is too often incommunicable. Lotus 
be more solicitous to lessen those trials and soothe those griefs 
which will yield to humanity's touch, and to remove, if it be only 
a single thorn, from the painful path of those who give us such 
rich and lasting treasures. Honour be to them ! May they 

" reach their native kindred skies^ 
And sing their pleasures^ hopes, and joys, 

In some mud* sphere ; 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year." 

A.J. 



YOUNG WATSON ; OR, THE RIOTS OF 1816. 

IN FOUR PARTS.— PART III. 

After congratulating Young Watson on his safe arrival, a 
consultation was held as to the best means of carrying out their 
plans for his safety and security. With a large family, and ia 
a small house, Mr. Holl conceived positive concealment to be 
impossible* His eldest son, a youth in his eighteenth year, was 
at once taken into their confidence, as his suspicions, and perhaps 
imprudent observations, might otherwise have hazarded the safety 
of their charge. He would not have been so easily blinded, as to 



230 YOUVa WATflOK. 

tiie real character of Young Watson, as the younger members of 
the family. It was also suggested that Watson should pass by 
another name, and be received into the house as a young man 
who came as a pupil to Mr. Holl to study engraving. This pro- 
posal was readily accepted. But another, and more difficult one 
remained. 

Mr. Holl had at the time two persons in his employ, Mr. Boffe 
and Mr. Brilly. They had been boys and fellow pupils together. 
He had the fullest confidence in their honour and integrity, and 
no consideration, he felt assured, would induce them to a breach of 
trust. He would have placed his own life in their hands ; Young 
Watson must do the same ; since, being all day, and part of the 
evening in the house, it would have been impossible to have kept 
Young Watson out of their sight, or knowledge : the particulars 
of his description would at once have led to that. The notion 
of the young man passing for Mr. Holl's pupil, was apt, and 
likely to succeed, but how to keep that pupil shut up in a room, 
in secrecy and seclusion, when the study was his proper place, 
was the natural question forced upon their minds. Their present 
position was attended with too much danger to hazard specula- 
tion as to who, or what this young man might be, and Mr. Holl 
proposed that both Roffe and Brilly should be confided in, or, 
that refused, Young Watson had better at once remove to where 
such speculation was not rendered necessary, as he felt it impos- 
sible to receive him into his family without the knowledge of 
these two gentlemen ; their suspicion, as to who he might be, 
would otherwise lead to the ruin of himself and his protector. 

After some little deliberation between Young Watson and his two 
friends, Evans and Moggridge, Mr. HoU's proposal was agreed to. 

When everything was thus far arranged, Mr. Evans said that 
his father and a few friends, had set a subscription on foot, for 
the support of young Watson, as they felt that no one person 
should be so taxed. To this no objection was made, provided 
it were done with due caution, and that Moggridge should be 
the sole agent between Mr. Holl and Mr. Evans. One pound 
per week was regularly paid up to the 9th of Pebruaiy — a space 
of some six weeks — ^when llir. Evans and his son were arrested, 
and the payment ceased. 

The most solemn assurances of secrecy and discretion were 
now entered into ; and it was agreed on ike part of Evans and 
Moggridge, that the strictest ^ence should be observed, and 



YOITN^ WATSOV. 231 

that Young Watson's abode should not be disclosed to any one. 
We regret to say, this pledge was broken on the part of 
Moggridge, who not only told his wife, but his daughter, a girl 
of some sixteen years old ; and it is a matter of no little wonder, 
their observations as to ** their knowing where Young Watson 
was," &c., did not lead to his detection and death. The clue 
Afterwards obtained, no doubt was the consequence of their impru- 
denee, and Ms breach of faith. After repeating their assurances 
of secrecy and discretion, Mr. Evans and Moggridge departed. 

The next morning, Roffe and Brilly were made acquainted 
with the responsibility Mr. Holl had taken upon himself in the 
cause of humanity, and at once gave the required promise, at the 
same time expressing their satisfaction at his confidence in their 
good faith. Their promise was never broken. 

Young Watson was now introduced to his new companions, and 
regularly installed in the study, as a pupil in the art of engraving, 
to which, as drawing is a necessary step, he immediately appli^ 
himself. 

In the hands of entire strangers, he at first appeared dis- 
trustful, and notwithstanding every assurance of their friendly 
inclination towards him, he exhibited a considerable degree of 
shyness and uneasiness. This however gradually wore off, and 
in a few days he became quite reconciled to his novel situation, 
and new friends. 

Another difficulty was, how to delude the children? The 
name of " Watson," uttered in their presence, w^e sure 
destruction, as they might repeat it ; and who could control a 
child's prudence, or discretion ? To avoid this necessity, and to 
invent a name as familiar as possible ; it was agreed to call him 
Mr. Henry Dudley, the 1)rother of a young man whose name 
was in constant use in the house. And the better to account 
for his long continuance within doors, the fsunily were told ihat 
Mr. Dudley's father was recently dead, and therefore he dis- 
liked company, and was quite indifferent about going out, his 
only pleasure being reading, drawing, &c. This artifice suc- 
ceeded very well, and he soon became a great favourite with 
them, and to this day, though the remembrance of his person 
may have ceased, the name of '' Mr. Dudley " is to them a 
household word. 

The moles upon Young Watson's face having been accurately 
described in the Proclamation, became of necessity an object of 



232 TOUNO WATBOir* 

mucli regard and anxiety. The children too might notice, or 
even mention them ahroad. Trifling in themselves, thej became 
formidable in their consequences ! Their removal was determined 
on, and caustic applied, not only for .present safety, but future 
escape, since with those " damned spots," the. eyes of eager 
recognition would be at fault. Its operation was slow, and the 
better to conceal its effects, his face was muffled up, under the 
pretence of a violent toothache. This pretended malady called 
forth the commiseration of Mr. Holl*s eldest daughter, who being 
a fellow sufferer, condoled with him on his assumed trouble and 
distress. 

All exercise by day being of course impossible, Mr. Holl and 
his charge sometimes rambled out at night across the fields 
towards Kentish Town, that is, when the night was dark enough 
—on moonlight nights he never stirred abroad. Moggridge too 
was not neglectful of the health or comfort of the young refugee* 
and sometimes took him out his darkened walk, for exercise and 
air. But, strangely inconsistent in his wish to serve, and moat 
unmindful of his promise, he came one night with Thisdewood, 
that dark mysterious man — who, it may be remembered, accom- 
panied Young Watson during his flight on the 2d of December, 
and was his companion through the eventful days that followed. 
This was a clear breach of trust, and Mr. Holl commented upon 
it in strong terms, and at the same time declared he had no 
fellowship with Thistlewood nor men of his stamp : he but strove 
to save a life, forfeited (as he conceived) through youthful folly 
and imprudence, but he would not have his house made the 
haunt, either of conspiracy or crime. His feeling of annoyance 
was not lessened, when on Young Watson's return from his 
night walk with Thistlewood, he foifiid him much excited, ^nd 
loud and violent in his speech. Having with some difliculty 
restrained his impetuosity, he insisted that Thistlewood should 
never be brought to his house again. 

The apparent shyness of Young Watson, and his dislike at 
meeting strangers, were matters of much speculation among the 
children, more especially the sudden running up stairs to his 
room — where he had pistols-^if any one knocked at the door, 
a^d his only going out at night. These and other circumstances 
were accounted for as occasion served, and neither the family, 
nor its visitors, had the remotest thought that the much-sougl^ 
for Young Watson had found a home beneath their roof. 



TOUKO WATSOir. 233 

The character jof pupil he carried out, steadily and well. He' 
made considerahle progress in drawing, attempted an etching, <Sz;c.y 
and from' the skill and readiness he exhihited in his new vocation-^ 
there is little douht, with time and practice, he would have made 
some stand in that most difficult art — portrait engraving. He 
also took upon himself the task of schoolmaster to Mr. HoU's 
younger sons, and rapt their knuckles for their inattention or 
hlunderiug, with a proper sense of his new authority. 

These incidents wiU show the confidence he had in his new 
friends, and his readiness in adapting himself to circumstances. 

At night he was provided with a newspaper, and read aloud 
the husy subjects of the day, and the all-engrossing one of his 
own immediate self. His captures — ^his arrests — his flights, and 
his disguises — of his being taken in Holland — ^at Boulogne, 
Bordeaux, &e,, and of his haidng escaped in the disguise of an 
old Frenchwoman — of some clue to his retreat being found — or 
of all trace of him being lost-^as likewise the detailed accounts of 
the ''takings up," and examinations in all parts of the country, 
of the many young men in "brown great-coats,** whose appear- 
ance in any measm*e tallied with his own. Daily arrests and 
daily disappointments went the round of the papers, together 
with the tempting offers of rewards for his apprehension. The 
perusal of these paragraphs caused him no small amusement, 
and his laughter found a ready helpmate in the eldest daughter 
of Jl^r. Holl, who at every fresh disappointment clapped her 
hands, and expressed her eager hope that ** he' would never be 
taken." Little did she suspect the object of this search and 
turmml was quietly seated by her side, reading his own dangers 
and escapes. 

Early in the month of January, 1817, he read an account of a 
young man, supposed to be Young Watson, who had sailed from 
Hull under circumstances of a mysterious nature, for some port in 
Prussia, or Denmark. Officers were immediately dispatched in 
his pursuit, but returned withoi^ meeting with the object of their 
seftrch. This circumstance suggested the idea of deceiving the 
police with the belief that this young man was indeed Young 
Watson. To further this deception, he wrote ia letter detailing 
many imaginary escapes, and other particulars of his fictitious 
journey from London to HuU — of his kind reception by a friend 
there, and final departure from the kingdom. His letter was 
written with the intention of being conveyed, through the agency 



234 TOUNfi WAtsoir. 

of a friend, to Hull, and so by post to London, /ind was addressed 
to Mr. Eyans, senior. This was inclosed in an envelope of thin 
paper — so that Mr. Evans's name eould easily be read through 
the cover — ^and directed to the ** President of the Meetings, 
at the Cook, in Grafton-street, Soho/* where a Spencean meeting 
was held. 

There was little doubt this letter would fall into the hands of 
government, and that the particulars of his flight to Hull, &c., 
in his own handwriting, would confirm the notion that the young 
man, whom the officers had followed, and lost on the continent, 
was no other than Young Watson himself. £y this means he 
hoped the news of his escape would spread over the country, and 
not only put the police on a wrong scent, but cause them to 
slacken the vigour of their search. Young Watson was acquainted 
with the master of a vessel trading between London and Hull, 
Darned Banks, in whose friendship he had implicit faitib. Through 
him, he hoped to get this letter conveyed to his uncle, Mr. 
Knowles, residing near Hull. It was accordingly inclosed in a 
parcel to his uncle, with a request that he would immediately 
forward the letter by post to London. The particulars con- 
cerning his abode, it need scarcely be said, he carefully avoided 
mentioning. 

This letter was conveyed to Captain Banks, whose vessel was 
on the eve of sailing, who promised to deliver it into the hands of 
Mr. Knowles. 

The packet had been dispatched some days, when Young 
Watson received the painful intelligence that Mr. Evans and his 
fion were arrested, and his mortification was increased by the 
supposition that the letter he had sent had been the cause of his 
arrest. This was indeed a sad blow, since, independent of his 
regret at their present danger and imprisonment, he had lost two 
faithful and valued friends — ^friends who had proved their friend- 
ship in his need, and in whose kindly offices he had the greatest 
faith. 

The curest of the Evans*s, however, was not in consequence of 
this letter. The parcel was safely delivered to Mr. Knowles ; but 
in the interim of its receipt, and such time as he should post the 
letter, he read an account in the newspaper, of the arrest of Mr. 
JBvans and his son, and not thixddng it prudent either to forward 
40r to keep it in his possession, he burnt it. 

The destruction of this letter was a fortunate circmnstanee &r 



jomQ WAXsoir. 235 

Mr. Knowles, as police officers came to examine his premises only 
a day or two afterwards, which they did in a very minute manner, 
inspecting every scrap of paper they could find, Ac. One of them 
drew a young child of Mr. Knowles's apart, and giving him cakes, 
asked him a variety of questions as to -whether he had seen his 
cousin James lately, if any one was in the house, &c. Failing in 
their search of Young Watson, or some clue to his retreat, they 
put Mr. Knowles under arrest, and took him before the magis- 
trates at Hull for examination. A vast deal was here spoken 
about ** offended justice," ** his king and country," and ** that it 
would be the height of patriotism and virtue to deliver his nephew 
— if he had him, or knew where he was — over to the hangman." 
But in this particular Mr. Knowles was as ignorant as even the 
worshipful magistrates themselves. 

During the concealment of Young Watson, the out-door discon- 
tent had by no means abated. Provisions were fearfully dear. 
A quartern loaf was as high as one shilling and eightpence, and 
the general distress sought far and wide a relief from suffering. 
The Prince Regent and the ministry turned a deaf ear to petition 
and remonstrance, while public clamour was assailing them on 
every side ; and, not content with words, the populace attacked 
the carriage of the prince on his return from opening parliament, 
January 28th, 1817. Stones were thrown at the guards, while 
missiles of every description were Jiurled at the prince and the 
royal carriage in its passage between Carlton Gardens and the 
stable-yard gate. The glasses were broken ; and, from the evidence 
of Lord James Murray, it appeared '^that one or two bullets 
had been fired at the coach." The next day, a royal proclama- 
tion offered a reward of lOOOZ. for the apprehension of any one 
who had so offended. 

Doctor Watson, Prestou, and John Keens were arrested about 
this time, on the charge of high treason, The Messrs. Evans 
and Hooper were already in custody on the same charge. Thistle- 
wood and Young Watson were yet to be taken. 

In. the two Houses of Parliament, the proceedings of the 2nd of 
December, and their enlarged consequences, were not suffered to 
remain idle ; and by W9>y of paving the way for the suspension of 
the Habeas Corpus Act, the report of the committee of public 
safety was laid before the house, . February 19th, to the effect 
that — ** your committee are convinced that, notwithstfmding the 
fulure of the 2nd of December^ a plan was formed for a sudden 



236 TOUNG WATSON. 

rising in the dead of night, to surprise the soldiers, to set fire 
to the harr^cks, to seize the river, and the hank, and that, to 
assist in the execution of their project, a formidahle machine was 
invented, hy which the streets could he cleared of all opposing 
force ; that placards, hearing the following inscriptions, were 
exhihited in all parts of London : — " Britons, to arms ! the whole 
country only waits the signal from London. Break open the 
gunsmiths. Arm yourselves with all sorts of instruments. No 
rise in the price of hread. No Regent. No Castlereagh — off 
with their heads. No taxes. No Bishops — they are all useless 
lumher;" and that nothing less than a revolution, expected and 
avowed, was the ohject of the Spencean and other Societies. 

This report was followed hy Lord Sidmouth proposing in the 
House of Lords, Fehruary 24th, a hill for the suspension of the 
Haheas Corpus Act — a hill, '<to enahle his Majesty to secure 
And detain such persons as may he suspected of intention against 
his Majesty's peace and government, since no douht was left in 
the minds of the committee that a traitorous correspondence 
existed in the metropolis, for the purpose of overthrowing the 
government;" and he required the suspension of the Haheas 
Corpus Act, since " it was not merely the lower orders who had 
united in the conspiracy : individuals of great activity, resolution, 
and energy, were engaged in the contest." 

On the hill heing read a second time, the Duke of Sussex rose 
and said, " He had heen present at the examination of most of 
the rioters, and the result of all he had heard was, that the suh- 
scriptibn amounted to the enormous sum of ten pounds. The 
ammunition was contained in an old stocking — there were ahout 
50 halls, none of which fitted the pistols, and one pound of 
powder ! Such was this mighty plan of insurrection, and he 
would not allow molehills to be magnified into mountains. He, 
therefore, should vote against the second reading." 

It was carried hy a majority of 115. 

On the same date, in the House of Commons, Lord Castlereagh 
had proposed the suspension of the Habeas Corpus,' and other 
Acts, "for the security of his Majesty's person." Mr. Bennet 
rose, and after commenting strongly upon the bad policy of such 
a measure, said, ** that ministers had already imbued their hands 
in the blood of their country, and had heen guilty of the most 
criminal cruelties." 

Upon the second reading of the bill, Sir Francis Burdett, 



YOUNG WATSON. 237 

moTed as an amendment, " That no person detained under this 
bill should be shut up in a dungeon, or other unwh|Olesome place, 
or he deprived of air and exercise, loaded with irons," &c. This 
proposal was negatived without a division « 
. The suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act was a fresh theme 
of discontent, and public murmur. Persons in the least obnoxious 
in their principles, or supposed to be. so, were immured in prison 
at the will of the Secretary of State,. or upon the information of 
hired spies and ruffians. Ko man's home was safe, and, as may 
easily be supposed, the situation of Young Watson, and his pro- 
tector, was rendered even more critical and trying. The vigilance 
of the police and their agents seemed to increase rather than 
diminish, by their unsuccessful search, while Camden Town 
seemed literally beset with officers. 

Nor was the arrest of Doctor Watson and his friends, together 
with other circumstances just detailed, the only peril Young 
Watson had to encounter. The danger had, in fact, reached the 
very. door. The search was so untiring, and minute, that all 
persons, whose age, stature, dress, or person, in any way. cor- 
responded with Young Watson, were viewed with eager suspicion, 
while he himself was scented at the heels. Officers and their 
myrmidons seemed to have taken up their station at the corner of 
every street in Camden Town, and all the avenues leading to, or 
from it, where thiey seemed to have their regular system of com- 
munication. The public-houses were frequented by them, at all 
hours in the day, and questions asked of all who came, or went ; 
while, to render the situation of the refugee yet more perilous. 
Bow-street officers were seen lurking at each end of Bayham- 
Street, and a house was searched only four doors off ! 

It was learned afterwards, that a young man, lately returned 
from sea, had been followed to the house where he lodged. No. 18, 
and being mistaken for Young Watson, was immediately arrested, 
but as his identity could not be sufficiently established, he was 
discharged the next day. 

The close surveillance under which Camden Town was placed 
left no doubt but that some clue had been found to Young 
Watson's retreat. But how obtained ? 

. A second proclamation had by this time made its appearance, 
**in the name and behalf of his Majesty,'* in which was renewed 
the promise of a reward of 5001, , "offered on the 6th of Decem- 
ber for the apprehension of James Watson the yo.imger, charged 



23S YOtJIfa WATSOK. 

with having wiifolly att^npted to kill and murder Richard Flatt, 
by firing, &e. ; and whereas a bill of indictment had been found 
by the grand jury of the City of London against the said James 
Watson, but that he had not yet been apprehended, and therefore 
we, (the Prince Regent), in behalf of his Majesty, are pleased to 
renew the reward of 5001., so made on the 2nd day of December, 
and renewed on the 22nd of January, for the apprehension of 
James Watson the younger, that he may be dealt with according 
to law ; and we hereby charge all persons, upon their allegiance, 
not to receive or harbour him : all persons offending herein will 
be held guilty of high treason. And we do also promise a like 
reward of 5001, to any person who shall discover, or cause to 
be discovered, any person so receiving or harbouring the said 
James Watson. — Given at our Court of Carlton House, the 18th 
day of February, 1817. 

" The above James Watson is a surgeon by profession, and has 
been employed in that capacity on board a Greenland ship. He 
is apparently 23 or 24, but in reality only 20 years of age ; 
dark hair, rather pale complexion, five feet four inches high — has 
a mark or mole with a few hairs on it, on his left cheekbone near 
the eye — ^the left eyelid rather drooping over the eye — ^very faint 
remains of small-pox in his face — ^has rather a wide mouth, and 
shows his teeth (which are very black) when he laughs. He some- 
times wore a brown great*coat, black under-one, black waistcoat, 
drab breeches, and long gaiters. And at other times, he wore 
blue pantaloons, and Hessian boots." 

This is the official portrait of Young Watson, which, as before 
stated, was incorrect. He had light brown hair, ruddy complexion^ 
was &ve feet three inches in height, and had very good teeih. 
The drooping of the left eyelid was indeed a peculiarity, and 
many were the experiments tried to remedy the defect — ^we believe 
successfully. 

Young Watson and his protector were surrounded on all sides 
by danger, and their anxiety, as may be easily supposed, increased 
with every fresh movement out of doors. Fortunately for all 
parties, the plan adopted for their security had the desired effect ; 
no apparent caution was observe, the children were seen going to 
school or playing about as usual, and the absence of anything like 
mystery, or departure from the accustomed habits of the family, 
diMibtless blinded the eyes of those who were on the watch. 
Erery house in th^ street bad become aot object of inqtuiy and 



TOUNO WATSOK. 239 

sa^icion, while a second hoose, immediately oppofidte. No. 6, wa» 
searched. 

No question now remidned as to the accuracy of the information 
or the nearness of the pursuit. But how had the clue been 
obtained ? It was conjectured that Mr. Eyans, jun., had been 
watched to Camden Town when he ci^d to see Young Watson, a 
few days previous to his own arrest — his only visit to Mr. Holl*s 
house since the night of the l7th of December, or that imprudent 
observations had guided the pursuit to the immediate neighbour- 
hood of his concealment. 

The question now was» the removal of Young Watson to an 
asylum less fraught with danger ; but who would shelter him ? 
The proclamation presented itself at every turn, and the know* 
ledge of the reward for his betrayal, together with the certain 
punishment of his concealer^ rendered the task too perilous. 
Young Watson was the pivot upon which all turned. Once in the 
power of the ministry, they had sufficient means to bring the 
charge of ** guilty '' home to all whom they wished to connect with 
him in the riots of the 2nd of December ; and a long string of 
victims would have graced the hangman's beam, adding another 
'^lot " to that disgraceful and death-dealing period. This young 
TOBXi at large, they felt, as it afterwards proved, that their charge 
Tfould fall to the ground. 

Who would shelter him ? Who would brave the wrath of govern* 
ment by concealing him ? Application was made to several, but 
all decHned — Moggridge among the number. He said, ''the risk 
was too great that ministers, in revenge for being so long baulked ; 
in their search, would visit upon his concealer their cherished 
vengeance, and involve him^ if only as an examjde, in the general 
doom of death." 

A rather singular manner of escape was at length devised for 
him. It proved, however, unsuccessful. 

It appeared that Moggridge was acquainted with a Mr. Casey, 
the keeper of a private mad-house at Flaistow, and having busi- 
ness in that neighbourhood, had called upon him. Here he met a 
Mr. Dennison. After dinner, their conversation turned upon the 
subject of Young Watson, and of his past and present difficulties^ 
which Moggridge dwelt upon at some length ; when Mr. Dennison 
observed : *' What a capital hiding-place Mr. Casey's mad-houae 
would be ! " A confidence was at length reposed as to Young Wataon's 
need of concealment,. whttLiiaf|iiMiced that Dennison hadhifioaelf 



240 YOUNG WATSON. 

come to consult Mr. Casey, as to whether he would afford a shelter 
to Thistlewood, who was in like jeopardy ; a pecuniary offer was 
made to Mr. Casey, which was accepted, and it was agreed between 
them, that Watson and Thistlewood would be brought in the 
course of the week. 

Some short time previously, Moggridge, on a visit to Young 
Watson, had brought with him a mutual friend of theirs, a Mr. 
Pendrell, a bootmaker in Newgate Street, whose services, in the 
after escape of this young man, were of so much and essential 
value. It is rather a curious circumstance that this Pendrell was 
a descendant from the same family, whose name, in connexion 
with the concealment of Charles II. in the oak tree, takes so 
important a place in the romantic history of his dangers and 
escapes. The family for many years enjoyed a pension of 100?. 
from the crown, but from some reason not known to the narrator, 
its present representative was not in receipt of the royal bounty. 

A meeting had taken place at Pendrell' s, when it was agreed 
between himself, Moggridge, and Dennison, that Young Watson 
should be removed to Mr. Casey's house the Monday following ; 
but by some mistake, Thistlewood was taken in his stead ! He 
was conducted to Plaistow by Moggridge and Pendrell, and was 
Strangely disappointed at not finding Young Watson there. After 
the departure of his two friends, he became violent and uneasy ; 
said he was trepanned into a mad-house, and insisted upon leaving 
it. No objection being made, he left the asylum prepared for him, 
in the full belief that his wife had conspired with others to confine 
him in a mad-house. 

The sum offered by govemnjent for the discovery of Young 
Watson was in itself large, while the knowledge that any sum 
might have been obtained from the secretary of state's office, pro- 
vided information could be given of his retreat, together with the 
arrest of his concealer, was enough to make the boldest tremble. 
The secret, too, of his concealment was already known to several : 
poor and needy men, whose imprudence, or the temptation^ of a 
large sum of money, might at any time betray. And all this risk ! 
for what ? to save the life of a rash, unthinking man, whose folly, 
rashness, and imprudence, had placed the gallows black before 
him ; while wife and children, life itself, were staked against 
the saving of a man, unseen until protected, unknown until be- 
friended. 

Friendship does much. Humanity did more. 



YOUNG WATSON. 241 

The slightest noise seemed fraught with terrors, while an unex- 
pected knock at the door, or casual survey of the house, caused 
fresh anxiety. His evening walks were now cut off, hut prompted 
by his curious fear, Young Watson kept a studious watch by day 
on all who passed. At night, with pistols within his reach, he got 
what fevered sleep he could. 

One day, while prying through the window at who might pass, 
he almost started from his post, as he saw Vickery, the Bow-street 
officer, watching from the windows of an empty house immediately 
opposite, and next to the one already searched ! The game was 
up. The police had at last hunted him down ! He crept from 
the window, and remained, as well as he could, sheltered and 
concealed. It Was a dark and dismal night for all. The hope- 
lessness of escape — the certainty that pursuit had traced him to 
the very door — gave the death-blow to the hope either of Young 
Watson's safety in his present shelter, or flight from it. It was an 
anxious, fearful night ; and seated round the Are, while the rest 
of the household were in bed, Young Watson, his protector, with 
his wife and son, sat gloomy and mistrustful. Speculation was 
busy in their minds, and with half-breathed words, they kept a 
noiseless conversation. It was near midnight, and their thoughts 
were fall of dread — their words of fear. 

A knock ! a single, loud, and unexpected knock, struck at the 
door ! All started to their feet ! Resolute, and determined to 
sell his life dearly. Young Watson rushed up to his room and 
seized his pistols, while the son, taught by the example of his 
some three-months' companion, and desirous to assist in his escape, 
armed himself with a dirk, and thus equipped, sallied out at the 
back of the house into a small garden with Young Watson, who, 
strong in his determination to kill or be killed, stood waiting the 
moment to act. 

All seemed lost. The house was no doubt surrounded — ^resist- 
ance useless. After quieting, as he best could, the fears of his 
wife, Mr. HoU took a light, and, expecting to be seized the moment 
he removed the fastenings, he assumed as much indifference as he 
could, and opened the door. 

H. HOLL. 



NO. XXXni. — VOL. VI. B 



242 



THE PHILOSOPHY OP FACTS 



Thejeie is no one who possesses a de^>er faith than I do in the 
present powers and ultimate progression of the human species. 
The distances of worlds, which, notwithstanding their magnitude, 
appear to us mere specks, have been accurately calculated by the 
mathematician: the depths of our planet have been compelled by 
the geologist, to render up the pages of its past history : the per- 
fection of mechanics, by which the labour of thousands has been 
reduced to a few manual operations, and the triumphs of steam, 
which has annihilated space and time, and broken down all 
boundaries between the brotherhood of man : — these are just 
proofs of the power that has been boasted. But, without throwing 
a damper upon exertion, by inquiring whether there have not 
been similar phases of progression in the anterior history of the 
human kind, or hinting that the law of the physical world is alse 
the law of the mental, '' Thus far shalt thou come, and here shall 
thy proud waves be stayed," it may be as well to give a man a 
nudge, at least, in these his dreams of this day's utilitarianism, — to 
show him that there is something else to live for, besides buying 
and selling. 

. But, however mysterious the amoimt of man's knowledge, there 
is a thing equally mysterious, the amount of his ignorance. Though 
he has amassed facts, ransacked nature, and pushed his know* 
ledge to the uttermost, the Baconian principle of modern philoso* 
phy, of building theories upon facts, has not one whit more suc- 
ceeded in informing him of the nature of things than the exploded, 
but perhaps not altogether untrue, system of ancient philosophy — 
first constructing the theory and then assorting the facts. We 
know the forms of matter, but what know we of matter itself ? 
We know the operations of the steam-engine ; it has become to 
our n^ind's eye almost the child of our creation, a second monster 
of Frankenstein ; but what know we of the soul ? We know the 
political relations of nations, — the metaphysical actions of mind — 
but what know we of ourselves ? This is a wisdom which has 
been — which is invaluable, — but which seems to be passing away: 



THE FHILOSOPHT OS PACTS. 243 

FNOei 2EAYTON was the oracle of ages ago ; but where has 

been the response in later days, except amongst the savage sages 

of the eastern and western worlds, whom we have contributed to 

destroy ? 

" E effilo desoendit yiwii vtavroy " 

said the Eoman satirist, catching the inspiration ; but this is 
altogether lost sight of in this utilitarian, go-a-head age. There 
is a higher .riadom and more glorious progresrion for man, than 
constructing cotton-mills, and flying over the world by steam. 
Mind, we do not say that this is not a stage of his advancement — 
that great social advantages are not derivable to the human family 
there&om, — ^but simply that it is not his ultimate destination. The 
progression of our ancient brethren was one of pure intellect, — 
of high art : after thousands of years they are our exemplars to 
this moment : ours is no doubt more practical, more universally 
useful ; but which is most abiding in the principles and constitution 
of the human mind ? — ^whieh associates itself more with the exist- 
ence and elements of an immortal soul ? It is altogether a 
question of nature, and not of degree. This error is pervading 
not merely our philosophy, but freezing up our feelings and affec- 
tions, and even debasing our language. The title of the standard 
modem work upon astronomy, is ** M^canique C^este." We hear 
the phrase constantly repeated *< Mechanism of the Heavens." 
I define mectMnism to be a work whose motions must come to an 
end, despite the will and despite the repairs of the contriver. Now 
no such thing can be predicated of the fabric of the Heavens. 
The language is calculated to degrade the conceptions ; and to 
reduce God's imiverse, of which we, perhaps, can grasp with 
difficulty but a i&actional part, to the mere arrangement of the 
springs and wheds of a piece of clock-work. There is another 
phrase of later date, which I consider to be more imphilosophical 
and offensive : it is essentially utilitarian : I mean that of hread» 
stuffs. Now I do think it no favourable sign of the progression 
of the Spirit of man, when the fruits of the earth are described in 
the same category as the products of the loom ; but as my object 
is to discuss truth, and not to dogmatise, I request your liberal 
pages for the purpose of converging a few more rays of light upon 
an interesting subject. 

I maintain, then, the progression of man, but that it is to be 
one of mental and not of material development. I maintain that 
material progression, if I may so term it, has already made its 

b2 



244 THE PHaOSOPHY OF FACTS. 

appearance at various intervals in past ages, in certain cycles of 
time and in different forms, and that these cycles seem subject to 
a law which has been guessed at, but which, as a metaphyseal 
problem on the mightiest scale, is is almost impossible to establish. 
That law seems to be a succession of ternary revolutions, whether 
of worlds or of men, — ^whether of principles or of facts. This has 
not escaped attention among philosopHers. It has been asserted 
that the facts of history repeat themselves — as comets return in 
their orbits — the moving principles, the circumstances, the same. 
It has been asserted that the very characters of particular indi- 
viduals are reproduced, fitted for a similarity of times. It has 
been personally experienced by many that there is a recurrence of 
facts, when we have exclaimed, " surely such a circumstance\^as 
occurred to us before." And whether we explain this fact on the 
principle just mentioned, or ascribe it to what is called duality of 
mind, or to a sudden lapse of memory into some unfathomable abyss, 
which then returns, but divides the fact between its commencement 
and its close, and recognises it as two, we have said enough to 
show that this idea is by no means new, that facts are reproduced 
in vast circles, complicated but certain — a mighty psychological 
system. What then has been uniform, we would also establish as 
true. The progression of man consists within him. To his 
powers of feeling and conception we can assign no bound ; but 
he is cramped and controlled by facts without him, — ^facts, in many 
instances (and herein consists his greatest ignorance), with which 
he has contributed, and is daily contributing, to surround himself. 
I d(f not profess to stop human action, it is but the sign of inner 
power ; but I would attempt to regulate it ; and I would do this, 
by showing, that a great deal of man's misery arises from himself, 
by his giving impulse to a series of these mighty vortices whose 
tendency is to engulph him, and by tracing these astonishing 
results to the minute point of action from which they commenced 
to move. Philosophers say that the nucleus of our planet was a 
mist, and the telescope discovers the indistinct specks of the 
nulky way to be a system. 

Drop a stone into a lake, and straightway you set a number of 
concentric circles in motion, and those at the extremity are gradu- 
ally widening in proportion to the force with which you throw, and 
the size of ^e stone let fall. If any obstacle meets those advanc- 
ing circles, they impinge, and produce new revolutions of circles in 
their turn. In the mean time the centre has become again 



THE PHILOSOPHT OF FACTS. 245 

placid, and the stone which has been the cause of all, is perhaps 
still travelling down slowly to its unknown depth. Such is the 
^j^ analogy that occurs to me, by which to explain the nature 
and operation of facts as acting upon the social surface. Now it 
appears at first sight that this is but a yain and trifling analogy, 
but it is not. It serves to express the philosophy of the thing, 
the mode in which actions operate, circling from near to far, and 
producing new systems of circles, connected with a cause which 
has already buried itself, as it were, in a forgotten past. And, 
secondly, we cannot teU, even with respect to the waves upon the 
water themselves : — they may operate upon things invisible to us 
so as to affect them. We cannot presume to caU this trifling, or 
indiflerent ; some insect life may be shortened in the, to them, 
tempest that is created. Nor is the cause of all this destroyed ; 
it is only hidden, not lost, and may, in its new poisition, produce 
new effects. 

But let us take a plainer, because more practical, analogy. 
The soil of a field is ploughed up, and to the surprise of the 
farmer, xmknown flowers spring there, that were never, as he 
thinks, planted there ; or a garden is dug up, and weeds of some 
strange species appear there. Now we know that they were not 
of spontaneous growth. There must have been a cycle of time 
and of circumstances, perhaps a wide one, under which they 
originally sunk too deeply into the ground for growth, and under 
which they again made their unexpected appearance. But was 
either their disappearance or their re-appearance, indifferent ? 
Then how account for their preservation ? " The times and seasons 
are not in our own power." Their disappearance might have 
been a judgment or a mercy : their re-appearance the same, if not 
to us, at least to other creatures in the scale of being : and thus 
this analogy is doubly illustrative of our argument, because it 
shows the operation of the principle, and touches us in its application. 

Let us strengthen our position by another analogy on a larger 
scale. Fathoms deep, in an immeasurable waste of barren ocean, 
exist myriads upon myriads of infinitesimal beings, endowed with 
life, instinct, energy, and motion ; they construct habitations — 
they erect palaces higher than our loftiest — they appear upon the 
surface of the water — they huild a world ; and, in the cycle of 
ages, it becomes the home of a portion of the human race, and 
the theatre of love, hatred, industry, genius — all the smiling arts 
of peace, or all the bloody miseries of war : but it would require 



246 THE FHtLOSOPHT OF FACTEU 

the vision of an angel to connect the last catastrophe of that 
world with the first faint insect-moyement, that thousands of 
years before, had pnt in znoticm the centre of this mighty system. 
How then can we talk of the triviality or indifference of actions ? 

There is no possibility of any fact being indifferent. The tread 
of my foot may be the destruction of a world, — ^it is nothing to 
the argument that that world be an insect one. The glance of my 
eye may smite a moral blight, or caU up a whole circle of rejoic- 
ing emotions. The first crack of a patch of plaster on a wall, may 
terminate in employment, giving bread to numerous families ; or» 
if that simple fact be let grow, may terminate in the death of a 
father and supporter, of a lover or an infant, and generate again 
its own cycle of calamities. 

The Greeks, that acute and metaphysical people, early dis- 
covered the existence of this vast chain of moral and material 
events. Their great historical tragedies were composed under 
the f(»m of Trilogies. The slight fact to<^ in them its starting 
point, and grew until it swelled into its fearful catastrophe. Nor 
did it end there : from that catastrophe another seed generated 
and grew ; and the eventual development of the first fact assumed 
a character of ternary succession, from which the term Trilogy 
is derived. 

The Grermans have also followed this arrangement in their 
dramatic literature, but their explication is derived from mere 
human sources, and not from historic agency, or the fortunes of 
heroes ; so that they cannot be supposed to have viewed this 
arrangement in the light of an artistic device, but to have adopted 
it as the actual operation of a xmiversal truth. 

The French have applied the principle to politics, and have in- 
troduced a new phrase, not merely into their language, but our 
own — Un fait accompli — not to express, solely, the <25pn<3iasion of 
a cycle of facts, but also the starting point of another generation, 
sweeping onward to the completion of a grander crisis. 

But the most extraordinary confirmation of the truth of the 
theory is the revelation of the doctrine in the sacred writings. 
We are told that Deity " visits the sins of the fathers on flie 
children to the third and fourth generation." This, then, which 
cannot be regarded as an individual punishment for offences, must 
be regarded as the declaration of a regulating few, and is quite 
sufficient for human guidance, although the reasons and mode of 
working out of that law must still remain a mystery. 



THB FH1L0SOPHT Of FAOTSf* 247 

Before I proceed with the stor j wMch, at greater length and 
more e3q)lanatorj detail, will place these principles in a fuller 
light, I shall lay before the reader some minor anecdotes in point, 
which will serre to strengthen mv argument and illustrate my 
meaning ; and as in a case of this kind instruction solely is in- 
tended, and the placing valuable truths, for the speculation or the 
reception of those who may be interested in them, before the 
public mind, I shall premise that there is no dressing-up in them 
of imaginary or even partial facts to -make good a supposititious 
case. There is no deception : they are genuine cases — occurring 
at di^fer^it times, and in different places, to the knowledge of the 
writer of this paper : and appearing to him not only as strange 
in themselves, but as having ulterior purposes ; they have im- 
pressed themselves strongly on his mind, and have gradually 
worked themselves in his judgment into the form of examples 
to strengthen a great philosophical proposition. 

The first ease is that of a man who had been living for many 
years in a state of gr^t and deadly sin, and whose heart, by 
success, and absence of discovery, had become totally seared, 
both to a sense of his crime and its consequences. At two 
separate and shortly distant times, two individiuds, who had paid 
the penalty of poverty and disgrace for a similar offence, and who 
bad no connexion whatever with each odier, were presented before 
this person in all th^ wretchedness of misery, like spectres in the 
revolution of the cycle of facts. Why were they thus attracted 
from different places, and under different circumstances, so as 
thus to pass, ghost-like, before the earthly vision of this person ? — 
doubtless, not accidentally in the great scale of causes and events ; 
but the first and second appeared and vanished^ unnoted as 
they came, and there was no impression on his mental eye. 
In about the same period of time, between the appearance of 
the first and second individuals, this person, by the discovery of 
3i new and final offence, finished the accomplished fact, both of his 
own previous course, and of their premonitory appearance, and 
fell into a similar position of debasement and misery. Who will 
be hardy enough here to talk of accident, and want of connection ? 
It is evident those two fellow-offenders were thus purposely moved 
roimd in their orbit of action to fulfil a design, and give a 
warning that, though then unnoted, was subsequently, by that 
individual, and by others, so interpreted. 

My second instance is that of a gentleman who had grievously 



248 THE PHIL0S0PH7 OF FAOTg* 

violated the confidence of his friend in his dearest domestic rela- 
tions. This friend had the happiness to die hefore a discoverj 
•was made, which wonld have senred to have brought him broken^ 
hearted to the grave, being one of the most sensitive and amiable 
of human beings. He happened to be buried in the vaults of a 
church in a distant part of — — , which have the strange 
power of naturally mummyizing the bodies placed there, so th»t 
after a few months the coffins might be opened for the inspection 
of friends who may again wish to see them. The individual who 
had thus so deeply injured him was travelling in company with 
a legal friend in the neighbourhood ; and, mind you, was ignorant 
of the place of his victim's burial. These two, actuated by curi- 
osity, paid a visit to those remarkable vaults. The very first 
vault they entered contained a single coffin — it was his I 

" There lies Mr. S .- ! " said the sexton. 

This was the second part of the <iccomplUhed fact In six 
months afterwards this gentleman was discovered in a fresh in- 
trigue with a member of a family, for whom his friend and 
travelling companion acted as solicitor, and this very man was- 
employed to sue him for damages, and ruin him ! Were these 
facts in themselves trivial, or rather did they not regularly har- 
monise and revolve upon themselves ; — commencing, connecting,, 
and concluding ? Was it not as if the spirit of the injured mani 
had given into the hands of his stranger visitant his case, to pro- 
secute and procure vengeance for his wrongs ? 

James N was a member of the bar, of agreeable manners, 

fine talents, and generally accomplished. He was also a man of 
good family, and possessed of good fortune. All these advantages 
were thrown away. He aimed at companionship with the highest 
society, where he was only tolerated for his convivial qualities. 
He gambled — ^he lost aU principle — ^he was ruined. The razor 
was snatched from his throat by a friend who discovered his in- 
tended suicide in time — he was privately smuggled out of the 
country, and went to Constantinople. He became a favourite in. 
high quarters thero— was offered promotion in that State, if he re- 
noimced Christianity. He did — ^he became an Apostate, and was 
rewarded. Years rolled on, and thoughts of the past and yearn- 
ings for the future returned upon him ; he privately made an 
engagement with the master of a trading vessel, at Constantinople, 
to return to his own country. His abandoned faith had embit- 
tered his happiness, and he purposed to return to it again. His- 



THE FHILOSOPHT 07 FACTS. 249 

secret was betrayed. He received the fatal message, for which, 
in that country^ there is but one interpretation ; and passing 
along one of the corridors of the seraglio, he was met by the two 
mutes, who threw him down and strangled him. The application 
of this fait accompli to my theory is equally plain, though not in 
its inferences so personal. We must therefore leave it to work it» 
way upon the mind, in confirmation of our positions, especially as 
it is liable to more mysterious application than it is our present 
purpose to discuss. 

It is with no intention of being tedious that we reiterate isolated 
and independent examples, but merely to establish a chain of 
argument, and to give others soma data to guide them in the 
inquiry as one of great interest ; and, therefore, we offer another 
case, still, as we think it necessary again to affirm, of our own 
knowledge. 

. A gentleman, a distiller by trade, had raised himself from 
being a poor, shoeless boy, to great opulence and importance in 
his county. Having arrived at the pinnacle of his position, he 
seemed quite intoxicated with success, and lost altogether the sense 
of his own true position in society. I believe there is no more dan- 
gerous nor abandoned state of mind. He lived in high society, who 
were necessarily, by county interests and county business, brought 
into communication with him ; but his natural vulgarity, instead of 
being checked and controlled into meanness, as having yet his 
fortune to make, now exhibited itself in full-blown, dictatorial, 
low-languaged insolence. He was given to drinking, but, though a 
distiller, no spirit ever passed his lips: he used to drink wine by 
tumblers-fiill. This fact is necessary to be stated. Ostentatious in 
Ms connexions with the great, and his expenditure to entertain 
them, he was a man fond of money, and not inclined to show 
leniency to the poor or those imder hun. Having thus pourtrayed 
his circumstances and his character, I proceed, briefly, to state 
his warnings and his fate, and describe the wheel of circumstances 
that, as I contend, bore him upon its periphery to his final fate. 
One Sunday, he made his appearance in his seat at church in the 
inflated pride of wealth, and surrounded by his happy, handsome 
family f after church he received a letter announcing to him the 
failure of a merchant who was indebted to him ire hundred 
pounds. This was nothing to him as a loss in a pecuniary way, 
but it served to irritate and inflame his passion, and drove him still 
oftener to the wine«bottle for the ensuing week. The second 



250 TEE PHILOSOPHT OF VACTS. 

Sunday saw Jiim again in his place, he rode there and from it in 
his carriage ; he had again his retinae of family and servants about 
him : on this Sunday he was oalled out of church to inform him that 
the eztensiye cattle-sheds on his country estate, a few miles out of 
the town, were on fire ; these were all consumed, together with forfy 
head of cattle. This loss was soTere, it amounted to more than a 
thousand pounds, hut still it could neither af^Bct his credit or his 
comfort : this was not the purpose of the cycle of yisitation. It 
happened however, unfortunately, that in his avarice he was seized 
with the dreadful idea of making that a ease of incendiarism, (in 
order to recoyer from the county,) which was plainly and pubUdy 
known to be mere accident, and took an oath, as necessary to that 
effect. The third Sunday he was dead — ^and died in so remarkable 
a manner as to make a great impression in his neighbourhood. 
His free living had considerably injured his general habit of body- 
On some slight illness he had retir^ to his room, and there received 
a remarkable and unusual wound, which ended his existence 
quickly by supervening mortification. Here also is an example of 
the trilogistic revolutions of circumstanoesy although its orbit is 
smaller and the time of motion quicker, but doubtless its (»ccof»- 
plished fact having fuMlied its own mission, served, and indeed, 
did eventually serve, to set a new cycle in motion with reject to 
the fate and fortunes of his surviving family* 

I shall add another example, and I do it gladly from the public 
journals of the day ; First, to pres^re a strange instance of the 
theory I have propounded ; and Secondly, because it has been 
already noticed in several papers and attracted public attention, so 
that there will be double effect in my 'application, of what has 
dready interested ihem^ though but as a passing incident of 
human existence. 

A young man, in service, of good abilities and good character, 
is sent by his mistress, residing in the country, to a jewell^'s in 
a neighbouring town, to bring her a diamond ring. He procures 
it and returns, and in crossing a wooden bridge, he drops the ring 
among some brushwood on the brink of the river. He searches and 
cannot find it : stupified with astonishment and affi*i^t, he dreads to 
meet his mistress lest he should be suspected of a theft. He fiies, 
visits India, brings his abilities and integrity into play, makes a for- 
tune, and after the lapse of many years, returns to England ; his first 
honest and kind-hearted intention being to visit his former mistress, 
bringing her a ring equal in value to the one he had so struigely 



THE FHILOS(»>HY OF FACTS, 251 

loet. He reaches the neighboxiring Tillage, and takes his way hj 
the very same fatal spot. A stranger meets him, who, attracted 
hy his manner, asks him does anything affect him ; he then 
details the history of the ring, its loss, his flight, his wanderings, 
his success in life, his return, and his present purpose. ** Perhaps," 
said the stranger, " the ring may he there stUl," and putting down 
his stick into the hoUow of an old tree that impeded the stream, he 
draws out the ring that had been lost. His honesty was guaran- 
teed, and he had been raised in the world ; and now, having ful- 
filled his own mission, and perhaps given new impulses of thought, 
feelmg, and action to others, he had returned to reap the fruit of 
his labours, and to find himself independent and happy. On 
reading this narration, of the truth of which there can be no rea- 
fsonable doubt, one is immediately reminded of Pamell's tale of 
** the Hermit," and tempted to think, almost, that the stranger 
who met him must have been an angel in disguise ; but passing 
tlus as impertinent to om* theory, the whole statement serves 
strongly to maintain and confirm it, and we doubt not it will so 
appear to the unprejudiced inquirer. 

A gentleman of my acquaintance, when a very young lad, paid a 
visit late one evening, to a house immediately adjoining a Cathedral, 
the whereabouts ef which it is unnecessary to mention. The house 
was the official residence of the sacristan, who was a shoe-maker 
by trade ; the lad went to get a pair of shoes. While he was 
waiting, there was word brought to the sacristan that there were 
robbers in the vaitlts. He got torches and pistols, and accompar 
nied by his two sons, strong and brave young men, went to the 
vaults in the performance of his duty. The lad earnestly requested 
to accompany them ; the younger son took charge of bun. When 
they eiitered the vaults, Ihey proceeded at once to one which was 
termed "the Royal," where a great many pwsons of rank were 
buried, as it was supposed the robbers would seek that vault for 
the purpose of stealing the lead. On entering this vault, a sad 
and disgusting spectacle presented itself: the robbers had indeed 
been there : the rich velvet palls had been carried off, the leaden 
coffins had been sawn asunder, and the bodies, in various stages of 
decomposition, were lying on the ground. In one comer of the 
vault had lain for years, a remarkable lead coffin ; it was not 
exactly what we call a coffin, but it appeared as if sheet-lead had 
been rolled round the body, still preserving the shape of the poor 
human frame that mouldered within it. The report ran, for thare 



252 THE PEILOSOPHT OF FACTS. 

was no record of its burial, that it' contained the body of some person 
of consequence who had died in France, that it had been sunk in the 
sea, attached by ropes, and thus brought over; but who he was, or 
why buried there, nobody could teU. The lad, in surveying the body 
thus so strangely buried, and so strangely exhumed, kicked some- 
thing with his foot ; he picked it up, and found that it was a small 
leaden case with a lid, and the sacristan sagely supposed that it 
had contained the gentleman's heart, (I have omitted to mention 
that the body was embalmed) : this, with a few strange-looking 
French artificial flowers that had decked the corpse, was aU that 
they discovered. The robbers had made good their retreat. 

Years rolled on, and the boy had become a man ; the memory of 
his night's adventure, when a youth, was almost forgotten ; he had 
been at a great school, he had graduated at Oxford, he had been 
called to the bar, and in the heart of this great city he was toiling 
honourably, but hardly, for advancement. At this time, in the 
circle of bis acquaintance, he continually heard a great deal of the 
beauty and accomplishments of a young French girl. Mademoiselle 

Melanie de R , she was an orphan, and had come over with 

the children of a respectable English family, more in the light of 
a companion than governess. She herself had English blood in 
her veins, but she was ignorant of her connexions, if any existed. 
She had been told by her mother that she ought to be in posses* 
sion of some inheritance, but her information on that point was 
scanty, and though hope and imagination gave many pleasing pic- 
tures to her young and innocent mind, it was more than probable 
that they were untrue as indistinct. However, she was a very 
charming girl, her friends could not think of parting with her, and 
they were sure, that, at any time when absolutely necessary for her 
settlement in life, she could obtain an advantageous e^blish- 
ment. It happened that our young 'advocate was introduced to 
Mademoiselle Melanie, and, ardent and impassioned in all his 
thoughts and feelings, he no sooner saw her than he loved her, 
and not to tire my readers in a philosophical paper with a tedious 
description of courtship, for a true tale, he married her. He had a 
smaU independence ; he had a good profession ; and with love, 
health, and talent, he could see no cloud gathering athwart his 
career of honourable ambition. 

Such are generally the feelings of youth ; but however pleasing 
to run into debt to Hope, it only adds to the feU power of Despair 
when he forecloses the mortgage. My friend had miscalculated; 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF FACTS. 263 

the law is a long and laborious profession ; tlie prizes depend 
little upon chance. An increasing family and some private 
losses had made Lis position very gloomy, and his prospects not 
such as those an affectionate husband and father would desire 
for those near and dear to him ; but Melanie still kept up his 
heart and his spirits, used often jocularly to say that her grand 
connexions would one day or another turn up, and that she would 
yet be a fortune to him. Her husband used to smile at this, and 
tell her that. that was unnecessary, for she already was one. 

After another interyal of years, my friend was once more in 
his natal city on family business, and at the house of his brother, 
who was curate of one of its lowest and most poverty-stricken 
parishes. It was in the time of the cholera, when all persons were 
bowed with the fear of momentary dissolution, and when even the 
clergy themselves shrank, in many instances, from the con- 
sequences which might accrue to their families from the perform- 
ance of their duty. My friend's brother was a man of high 
principle, and putting his life in better keeping than his own care, 
was always foremost in every necessary work upon that occa- 
sion. The two brothers, after a long evening's chat over the 
different circumstances of the day and time, had retired to rest, 
and were already asleep, when they were aroused by a loud 
knocking at the door. On looking out, they saw three men of 
the lowest and most sinister description, with stout bludgeons in 
their hands, and attended by a savage-looking dog. ** What did 
they want ?'' ** They had come to request his reverence to attend 
a poor dying man.". He objected at that unseasonable hour, and 
under .such suspicious circumstances. They swore to him that 
not a hair of his head shoidd come to harm, and conjured him not 
to abandon a dying soul in his last hour. Thus appealed to, the 
curate no longer hesitated, *but said, '' You must permit me to 
take my brother." The three men hearing this, retired some 
distance for a conference ; at length the spokesman said, ** We 
trust your reverence, let him come." 

Through lane within lane, and court within court, the men con- 
ducted them with the most ceremonious respect ; they were evidently 
in the lowest and vilest haunts of the city, but their passage was 
unmolested, and they felt completely secure. **Here is the place, 
your reverence," said the leader, striding over a putrefying kennel, 
and diving into a dark cellar. The brother stopped, " I swear," 
said the robber, " by , that there shall no harm happen to a 



254 THE PHILOSOPHT OF FACTS. 

hair of your heads ; I have brought jon safe, and safe I will 
bring jou back. I told mj dying comrade I would fetch yon ; 
you would not desert a dying soul." Thus adjured, they entered. 

The cellar was damp and dark. There was no mistaking now^ 
the nature of the lawless calling of the men. At OAe end sat 
three thieves playing cards on the upper head of ui empty 
beer cask, a miserable tallow candle set in the bung-hole ; 
while the atmosphere was so dense^ that the smoke would hardly 
rise ; a gin bottle and broken cup stood between them. Although 
their companions had entered, they continued their game. 

" Get up, Jim, and light a candle for the gmtiemen," said the 
spokesman leader of the curate and his brother. It was lit. In the 
far comer, on the bare flags, on a puddle of wet straw, lay the 
form of a man in the last stage of the cholera. No medicid aid 
had been sent for ; he wished to die ; he wished to be rid of the 
life he had been leading. He had been a respectable tradesman's 
son, and had been seduced by women, drink, and bad com- 
pany. He had turned in one day to church, for want of some- 
thing to do, and had heard the gentleman preach, and it had 
reminded him of old times, when he used to accompany his father 
to church, so he could not die easy until he had seen him. This 
was the dying robber's unhappy tale. The curate prayed, and 
endeaToured to administer to him spiritual consolation. Finding 
the man sunk into a state of collapse, he went oyer to the men to 
propose that they should go for the parish doctor : the brother 
still remained beside the dying man. He rallied again, and 
mistaking one brother for the other, he said, 

'' Hush ! hush ! come nearer. I have been a great sinner ; I 
robbed a church, I robbed the dead ; but here, here, here, — *' and 
fumbling in the damp straw, he drew forth a roll of crumpled 
parchment, handed it to the astonished lawyer, and fell backward 
from exhaustion. 

'' This, then, was one of the robbers in the Cathedral that 
night,'' said the lawyer to his brother, as they returned home, 
guarded as before. 

What an end for crime ! What a warning to youth ! But what 
were the feelings of the lawyer on arriying at home, when, 
opening the parchments, he discovered that &ey were the title* 
deeds of an estate, and that the name was the same as that of 
his own wife, Melanie de R . 

It was not my intention to write this paper merely to amuse, or 



THB PHILOSOFHT OF FAGITO. 255 

to afford a subtle disquisition to exercise the mind, unless I 

eould suggest useful maxims for the regulation of the conduct of 

my readers with reference to facts, in order to prevent any 

id them (which will be reward enough to me for mj trouble) 

from being oyerwhelmed, either in themselTes or families, in such 

vortices of calamity as I have exhibited in all times and among 

all classes, to have embraced what is commonly termed a series of 

indifferent acticms* We have seen that no word is indifferent : 

^fortiori, no fact can be : and could we trace the most important 

events of our Hves to their first germs, it would surprise us to 

discoTer the murder, in the first cruel killing of the fiy ; the 

robbery in the first stealthily appropriated piece of sugar, of the 

infant man. The poet utters the oracle of a deep philos<^hy, 

when he says — 

« The child is father of the man." 

The intervals of time, however long, destroy nothing of the 
consecutiveness of events, or of ideas and feelings, which are as 
true events as acted ones. The office of time is but to ripen 
them for good or evil ; and as the octogenarian cannot remember 
every pulsation of existence from the first perceptions, although 
he is conscious of his identity, and feels now, though his life has 
been agitated by many incidents and events, that his existence is 
rounding into a sleep, to awaken again with new modifications of 
being ; so though intervals of motives to action may exist, or may 
remain imjQOticed and forgotten, we know they may be dormant, 
but not dead, and will return in regular and perpetual cycles of 
fresh causes and effects. In this view of the case there is many 
an action of the youngest child, that receives the toleration and 
provokes the laughter of the delighted parent, though the judg- 
ment at the same time informed him or her that the action in 
question was neither indifferent nor light : the pleasure consisting 
but in the witnessing the precocity of infant-mimicry of mature 
wrong. But does philosophy teach this strictness with children ? 
The answer is, there is no strictness in the matter ; but if there 
trere, the answer again is, experience proves the necessity of 
abstinence from such foUy— restriction is better than destruction. 
In this view of the case there is many an indiferent action of our 
own, that, if we would beforehand trace out its |$robable course 
and cycle of consequences, we most assuredly would abstain from ; 
therefore^ as we cannot altogether do this, let us be cautious and 



256 THE ?riSDOM OF ANOTHER PLACE. 

guarded in the actions themselves. How many a reader knoira 
numbers of his acquaintances, who have surrounded themselves 
with calamities, unimagined till felt, the range and power of which 
they cannot fathom, merely from light circumstances of appa- 
rently the most indifferent imprudence. These are not selfish nor 
misanthropic views. We may be cautious, without being cold — 
we may be prudent, without being apathetic — ^but I do not wish 
my moralities to be tedious, and conclude with this apopthegm: — 
A miner raised a stone from the bottom of a mine ; it had some 
shining parts : these he threw away, and kept the rest, though 
only to make a pot or a kettle : a child found the remainder, 
and charmed by its glittering, he took it home and put it under a 
glass-case in his little cabinet. ovtk. 



THE WISDOM OF "ANOTHER PLACE." 

Most persons remember the place which it was once thought 
not proper to name to ears polite. There are now two places in 
each of which the same etiquette is kept up with regard to the 
other. This reserve must proceed from one of two motives : first, 
the individuals who find themselves in one of these limbos may 
not think those congregated in the other worth mentioning ; or, 
secondly, they may hold them in a veneration too profound to admit 
of the habitual naming of their habitat. On this momentous 
point it would be presumptuous in us to decide ; we have little sym- 
pathy with the frequenters of either place^ though, as in duty 
bound, we think each wiser than thqi other, and all immeasurably 
superior to the profane *' out of doors." 

At the present moment, however, having just concluded the 
laborious operation of selecting from thirty millions the wisest 
and best men we could find to fill the benches of a neighbouring 
locality, we have scarcely a moment left to bestow " on another 
place." Still it may be an object of legitimate curiosity to con- 
jecture what it is likely to undertake and accomplish next year, 
influenced as it must be^ by the character and opinions of men, 
haranguing or deliberating elsewhere. It is a fact not sufficiently 
considered by the public, that " another place " has no idiosyn- 



TH£ WISDOM OF ANOTHER PLACIS. 257 

crasy of its own, but displays a sort of second-hftiid charactei^ 
impressed upon it by an external agency. Its hereditary disposi- 
tions are modified by every accident ; it sympathises with all the 
changes effected in a neighbouring assembly, and reflects, though 
feebly and imperfectly, its successive forms and colours. It is the 
passive organ of legislation. All the activity it seems to possess 
comes to it from without, so that to ascertain what it will think or 
do under any given circumstances, we have only to acquaint our- 
selves with the ideas and determinations of its better half. 

And what qualities is this better half likely to exhibit next ses- 
sion ? Will it be fiery, and impetuous, and eager to go a-head, or 
tamely inclined to repose on the political back-water, and be 
floated into the rear of the age ? In sundry parts of the empire, 
obscure intimations have been thrown out that we are fast ap- 
proaching the precincts of a new Golden Age, in which all poli- 
tical differences will disappear, and every man be seen sitting 
down contentedly under the shadow of his neighbours' opinions. 
Party is to lay aside its weapons ; men of strong feelings and high 
principles are to coalesce amicably with people who have no feel- 
ings or principles at all, and the world is to be infinitely the better 
for it. In this universal regeneration "another place" will of 
course participate ; and if we glance at its normal conditions, we 
shall probably be disposed to acknowledge that there is consider- 
able room for improvement. To be thoroughly convinced of this, 
we have but to look back a little, to examine its sayings and 
doings during the preceding session ; to calculate the efforts it 
made to achieve nothing, and the perplexities and embarrassments 
it was under to discover some method of killing time. 

Occasionally during the dawn of the present year, we used, by 
way of variety, to drop into "another place" to observe the 
shows and appearances with which our ancestors would seem to 
have been much delighted. And what was it that we saw ? 
Very much that puzzled our powers of conjecture. Lesg fortunate 
than Dante, we found no good-natured manufacturer of verse or 
prose to guide us through the intricacies of that doleful region. 
On the floor of a dimly-lighted apartment we beheld sundry figures, 
mostly stationary, and heard from time to time the chirping as of 
grasshoppers, which, in our benevolence, we were fain to accept 
for human speech. But the topics, it may be asked, what were 
they ? Did they smack of the vitality of this age of steam and 
noise, or were they thin and airy like the speakers, and in the 

NO. XXXm.— VOL. VI. s 



2^8 «fi£ 17I«1>0H OF JIKOTHSR PLACE. 

cracked motdds of anftiqaitj, and redoient of the political chamel 
house ? We repress all inclination to piifrsixe such profane inqui- 
ries, and desire to have it belieyed that we profit greatly by the 
sage discourses ire there and then heard — all Ihe speakers bemg 
titled, and titles invariably conferrhig upon men the power to 
dcflight and instruct dthers. Still we have been up<m the v^ole 
disappointed in "another place." The gtrta and bony shadows 
of legislatoHB Who there congregate, mot bo inuch to transact public 
business as to illustrate the position that while all the rest of the 
world is actively engaged ihey have nothing to do, and seldom get 
properly thawed un& June. Like the bears, they are hibeitiatiiig 
animials, who should not be disturbed till the sun rides with Toiarus ; 
they may then come forward with some chance of continuing 
%wake five hours in the twenty-four, partly for their own amuse- 
ment, and partly fot the benefit of the nation. 

But when these ancient gentlemen are roused by a sort of legis- 
lative galvanism into activity, what is it that they perform ? To 
what generous sentiments do th^ give utterance ? What proofs 
do they offer that the interests of this mighty empire are intelli- 
gible to th^m ; that the^ are familiar with ike character of our 
industry, that they have duly estimated the value of our colonial 
establishments, that fhey have familiarised themselves wi^ our 
genius, moral and intellectual ? Have they qualified themlselves 
to pour the poieon'of tropes and figures into ourefirs, and to allure 
us from the consideration of OUr rights W the blandishments ^md 
mtcheries of IsBgUage, by gorgeous imagery and piles of rich s&d 
dazzling thoughts thrWn up over the every-day world till they 
pierce the empyrean? Do we, while listening to thdr words^ 
imagine that they speak the style of gods, and forget our wlwngs 
and sufferings in the de€5paiid powerful fescination of their aristo- 
cratic rhetoric ! 

Alas, nothing of all this ! But the imnates' of " another place " 
are perhaps humble, inquisitive Ohristaans, who examine the rela* 
tions of pounds, shillings, and pence, and 'Watch over the vulgar 
interests of the nation t In sOtoe sense they are often suffici^itly 
humble. We find them, for example, entering minutely into the 
history of a Boup-kitchen, advancing certain propositions, relating 
certain circumstances presumed to be facts, and scattering certain 
accusations believed to be well founded. This constitutes the 
work of one day ; and having conscientiously accomplished it, the 
wise men adjourn to indulge in hock and champagne, and gamble^ 



TEE WI^W OF i^lOXHER Pl^iCJS. 2i§9 

'Jniiigue, or sleep, till the morro:w« They then repair ^.gaia to 
*< another place," and having no particular business prepared 
{or them, nothing to legislate upon in the actual state c^ the 
eonntrj, nothing connected with our numerous distant dependen- 
&e&, or with ^e .complicated relations aubsisting between ips 
.and foreign states, they return to the aU-engrossing topic of the 
.80up4itehen, confess that they had been inadvertently betrayed into 
certain errors and mis-statements, that the evidence laid before 
them had been incomplete, and that consequently they desire to 
make a sort of retractation. The &culty of saying and unsaying 
being among their privileges, they retract accordingly ; and thus 
4hd aecond liitemoon is profitably conaumed. TJie third dreary doj 
dawns and witneaaes in ^' another place " the same dearth of legia- 
li^ive employment* They search their joumaJa, they look wistf^ly 
at each other, they glance imploiingly at the door leading froin 
the national place of business, in die hope that some stray biU, 
aome topic ^prolific of discussion or contradiction, some hint upon 
which A hungry orator might fasten, may present itaelif. But the 
/people in ike antipodes of '' another place " are inexorable, and 
without paying the least attention to the windy suapirations of the 
primitive gods of the earth, proceed strenuously with their own 
work, feeding the pauper in one place, and condetmning him to 
starvation in another, according to the influence of the stars. 
Shocked by this development of the monopolising spirit, the men 
<of titles and distinctions, the hereditary oracles of the world, 
revert a third time to their soup-kitchen, and turn it over and 
•over, and round and round, to diacover whether or not anything 
more can be got out of it. In this way, and by the help of 
certain complimentary phrases, they aid the fatal sisters in 
spinning out one hour and a half more of their lives, when, 
eonceiving that they have achieved wonders for the happi- 
ness of the country, they adjourn again. Dukedoms and 
marquisates impart no akill in statesmanship. Even the 
Countess of Salisbury's garter, though bound round the 
forehead, would scarcely act like political inspiration ; .and so the 
melancholy grandees drop a fourth time down in their flittering 
equipages to '^ another place" without precisely knowing wherefoire 
they do so, and how they are to find employment when they get 
there. The soup-kitchen is stale, but it must serve once more. 
The great props of the State, with *' Atlantlan ahoulders fit to 
.hear the weight of mightiest monairchiea," ut in conclave on the 

s2 



260 THE WISDOM OF ANOTHER PLACE. 

kettle and the skimming-dish ; sport their syllogisms and their 
enthymemes ; remember their Eton and their Harrow days ; and 
strive to plump out their unleavened discourses with threadbare 
verses from the Greek and Latin poets. Whether they quote 
right or wrong, it matters not. Their memories have become 
like the tub of the Danaides, through which all scholarship would 
leak as fast as it might be poured in. So that though their prac- 
tised ears may detect a false quantity, they would not be in the 
least shocked at hearing a passage from the Eumenides attributed 
to Homer. If the days of theological discussion were not over, 
they might invite an Episcopalian orator to entertain them with a 
political diatribe on the five points, not of the People's Charter, 
but of the controversy betweeii the Calvinists and the Arminians. 
Unfortunately, these helps to legislation are worn out. Like the 
divinities of Paganism, therefore, these Patricians of the nine- 
teenth century are condemned to feed their airy intellects a fourth 
time on the steams of the soup-kitchen, which, rolling round the 
oligarchical Olympos, ascend thin and vapoury to their nostrils, 
suggesting no idea of sacrificial pomp, but redolent rather of 
hungry paupers and Irishmen, defrauded of their Sunday's dinner. 
Will no one, therefore, have pity upon " another place," and 
supply it with some small pittance of occupation ? We have con- 
stitutional philosophers who descant habitually on the marvellous 
benefits we derive from these two branches of the legislature 
which sit on the banks of the Thames and enliven our winters by 
their witty exhibitions, but can discover no equity in the way in 
which the constitution has thought fit to tax their legislative 
powers, all the labour being heaped on one, and all the leisure on 
the other. The hereditary House is a real Castle of Indolence, 
where gartered knights and mitred prelates nod at each other, 
and snore in couples. And yet it is considered highly objection- 
able to talk of reforming " another place." There is such a thing, 
we are told, as a political atmosphere, by inhaling which a man 
becomes wise mechanically. He does not need to study, to con- 
sume the midnight oil, or commune with the thoughts that 
wander through darkness, and visit the sleepless in the deepest 
silence of nature. He who breathes the political atmosphere knows 
^ things by instinct. His greatness and his success in life depend 
on the topography of his birth-place — on the moral gases in 
which his infant intellect is steeped— on the number of bipeds 
and quadrupeds at his command — on the dimensions of the masses 



THE WISDOM OF ANOTHER PLACE. 261 

of brick and mortar by which he is defended from the elements. 
Be his spiritual organisation coarse or fine, he has only to have 
his cradle rocked in the atmosphere of politics to grow up into a 
lawgiver. • 

On the lower levels of society, individuals are born and nur- 
tured for inferior occupations — for the study of philosophy, of 
literature, or the sciences. In these humble branches of know- 
ledge and petty pursuits, low people may make some figure, 
because in them much depends on genius and strenuous applica- 
tion. Even the vulgar, without any aid from garters or coronets, 
may heap up about themselves the glittering riches of language, 
and ascend over the heights of their own speculations into the 
very heaven of invention. They may range through the whole 
universe of thought — ^they may even tread within the sacred pre- 
cincts of politics, and be masters of the art of ruling millions by 
the simple exercise of the will and the tongue. But they are not 
on that account a jot the less vulgar, if they inhabit democratic 
localities, breathe plebeian air in the suburbs, and are known by 
ignoble appellations. The power to rule comes by nature, whereas 
learning and philosophy are the gifts of fortune. There is con- 
sequently no merit in possessing them, otherwise we should see a 
change in the economy of this world's affairs. The true philoso- 
pher is your member of " another place," who, in the innate 
dignity of his position, walks into power and emolmnent ; becomes 
a minister and an ambassador, or obtains the vicarious sway of 
an empire. He stands in no need of ordinary acquisitions. His 
wisdom is in his blood. He derives his authority from his ances- 
iors, or rather, perhaps, if we look more narrowly into the matter, 
from the political superstition of the people, who have always been 
addicted to worship idols, without inquiring into their merits. On 
this feeling rest the foundations of *' another place,'* which will 
never want moat or battlement to protect it from popular influence 
while the public mind is governed by the ideas now prevalent. In 
good time, reform perhaps may come, when its great apostles shall 
have perished in garrets, having wasted their best energies in 
struggling bravely to achieve the recognition of just and beneficent 
principles of government. , But no matter ; the patriot is not a 
patriot if he struggle for himself, and must be content to be a 
martyr if he desire to enjoy a martyr's reward, namely, to live in 
the recollection of his race, and become a name beloved and 
cherished by posterity. 



262 THE WISDOM 07 AKOTHBB PLACB. 

Meanwhile the titled and jewelled entity, which from year to* 
year sits in slumbering state in *• another place," may perhaps be 
rudely awakened next winter by its new companion. We disHke 
the trade of a seer, and have no aptitude for it ; but looking at 
the rough and obstreperous gentlemen whom the sagacity of the 
country has selected to represent them in the antechamber to 
"another place," we are led to entertain certain expectations 
which we may as well perhaps keep to ourselves. In other parts 
of the domain of nature, the fleeting is modified by the permanent ; 
but in the institutions of this country it is not so. Here that 
which is permanent receives its impress and bias from that which 
owes its birth to accident, and which comes and goes like the 
shadows of the clouds. Is this right? We presume so, other- 
wise it would be altered, for we are a wise people, slow to deli- 
berate, and quick to act. 

One circumstance included within the limits of this subject^ 
which has seldom, if ever, been pointed out, may just now, per- 
haps, be thought to merit particular attention. It is this. That 
wlule one branch of our legislature is supposed to grow antiquated 
in the course of a few years, and therefore to need periodical 
renewals, the other is looked upon as all the better for its anti- 
quity, and for being completely out of harmony with the age* 
Great political philosophers will doubtless be able to assign a. 
reason for this, which, to them, will appear satisfactory, though 
not, we fear, to us. What they may feel inclined to say we shall 
leave them in their wisdom to explain, and state our own vulgar 
views of what is likely to happen from that sublime arrangement 
which they so profoundly admire. Each successive House of 
Commons, that is elected by the people, will possess less and less- 
analogy to the hereditary House ; less conformity of thought ; less 
community of feeling ; less forbearance and toleration for ante- 
diluvian usages and sentiments. The old poetical fable, which 
presents a living body allied to a corpse, will be realised before 
our eyes. We shall behold the fantastic drollery of active and 
powerful realities overridden by shadows, until the time comes for 
a further development of our constitution, by the reconstruction of 
** another place. ' 

Towards this consummation we are rapidly tending. Untit 
recently the popular element in the body politic seemed to be 
paralysed, as it exercised no influence, and was made no account, 
of. Now, however, through a series of fortunate accidents, o*- 



TBB ?AUPEB PCNBBAL. 263 

rather, perha^ps, through the opeiratiou of certain irresistible pria- 
cipIeSf it is acquiring something like an ascendancy, and when 
communities enter upon this part of their career, it is seldom 
foand easy to stop them. Every day strengthens the cause of 
progress. Legislators and ministers, the leaders of parties, and 
the leaders of the press, agree in proclaiming this truth. The 
world, therefore, may yet hope to witness something like real 
wisdom in ** another place," not indeed indigenous and of spon- 
taneous growth, but transferred thither from without, in ways 
most novel and anomalous. Already the grim passages of reform 
display themselves in the political horizon, thoug^h the habitual 
aul pUsaLonal soothsayer? of the nation declafe they can dis- 
cover no such things, but, on the contrary, seem fuUy persuaded 
that, for centuries to comoj everything will proceed in the regular 
track. However, as the future belongs to everybody, we are free 
to fashion it as we please, and our pleasure is to think that it will 
not in aU things resemble the past. 



i Vi nrr i u Hiigmit-xjiU 



THE PAUPER FUNERAL. 

Akong the country poor there is no object which appeals so 
touchingly to our commiseration as the aged widow. She is often 
alone in the world, a solitary and silent sufferer, where the eye of 
compassion seldom reaches her retreat, and the hand of charity 
doles out but a parsimonious bounty. The groans of her misery 
pass unheard or unheeded, and she lingers out the painful 
remnant of a wretched life under the tyranny of parish legislation, 
Tithile struggling beneath the crushing burthen of age, helpless- 
ness, and want. To her the world is a dungeon, surmounted by 
gorgeous pinnacles and towers, the glories of which she is unable 
to reach ; but while she sees their splendours afar off, all within 
her sphere of action is gloom and desolation. Surrounded by an 
atmosphere of blighting poverty, her ear assailed by the hum of 
busy life — ^busy in crime, and teeming with the seeds of death — 
she looks in vain for sympathy from those whose bosoms are 
estranged by misery, and but too commonly hardened in sin. To 
her there appears neither ebb nor flow in the turbid stream of 



264 THE FAtTPEB FTJKERAZ.. 

Time. It seems stagnant, and dark with woe. No ray of joyous 
light falls on it, hut the hitters of misery are infused with poison- 
ous prevalence, until the noxious draught mingles fataUy with 
the springs of existence, and stops the languid current from that 
mysterious fountain. Friendless and forlorn, she lives unpitied, 
and dies unregretted. If she has children, they are at too great 
a distance to perform their filial duties round the hed of an 
aged mother. They are too scantily supplied, from the paradise 
of enjoyment, to cast any flowers upon the harren path of her 
pilgrimage. The wheels of Time move sullenly along, clogged 
with the accumulating weight of their own cares, and these too 
frequently render them insensible to the severer sufferings of 
those who claim their sympathy. They behold not the writhings 
of a decrepit and deserted parent ; they hear not her sighs ; they 
witness not her lamentations. She is desolate and alone. She 
basks in the sunshine, but it warms her not : it does but mock 
her misery. The frost of winter is within the well, and the 
waters of life are congealing at the spring. The tempest roars 
over her dwelling of mud and straw, as if to drown the sighs she 
is perpetually heaving at the dismal uniformity of her lot. 

During a residence of two years in the country, I was an 
eye-witness to much of the wretchedness endured by this bereaved 
class of our fellow-creatures, and of a poor widow, more especially, ♦ 
whose character interested me much, from the unrepining patience 
with which she submitted to a lot of protracted and unrelieved 
privation. I will endeavour to trace a few of the very sombre 
shadows of her most disastrous course, pursuing the sorrowful . 
detail of her last moments, and what immediately followed. I 
was in the habit of visiting her two or three times a-week, during . 
the term of my residence in her neighbourhood ; and, though my 
means were on too narrow a scale to admit of my doing much, I 
did not, therefore, withhold the little I could spare from a store so 
straitened as scarcely to suffice for my own most frugal wants. 

The object of my so limited bounty was in her eightieth year, 
so curved by age and infirmity as to be almost dwarfed, and so 
feeble as to be all but helpless. Her breath came from her in 
short gasps, as if her lungs had no longer room to play, and her ■ 
artictdation was consequently so obstructed, that to a stranger 
she was scarcely intelligible. Her eye was dim and glazed, while 
the lid, flaccid and shrivelled, almost covered the dull orb, beneath 
which it peered through the narrow opening, with that lack-lustre 



THE PAUPER FUNERAL. 265 

expression so peculiar to age, on which the hand of infirmity has 
laid its last burthen. 

The hovel — for such it was — occupied by this bereaved woman 
had been originally erected for cattle. The walls were of mud, 
rising about ^ve feet above the earth, surmounted by a narrow, 
thatched roof, double the height of the walls, and so " o'erpatched '' 
by ill-practised hands, as, like the clothes of Otway's hag, and 
no less of the poor old inmate, to speak ** variety of wretched- 
ness." Within, the naked straw — for there was no ceiling — was 
covered with cobwebs, so heavy with dust as to be nearly detached 
from the thatch ; and those strong incrustations engendered in 
damp localities, where foul and fetid exhalations continually 
form the most noxious deposits, which had, no doubt, in this den 
of suffering poverty, been the gradual accumulations of years. 
From them there was perpetually disengaged a pungent vapour, 
which considerably impeded the respiration, and imparted so 
nauseous a smell that it was a positive penalty to remain, even for 
a few minutes, beneath the roof of this miserable habitation. A 
small window, inserted when the shed was converted into what 
the proprietor, with the plausible discretion of a parochial land- 
lord, termed a cottage, was nearly covered with paper, in order to 
supply the panes of glass which the i-ude winds, or the ruder 
imps of the neighbouring hamlet, had wantonly broken. This 
aperture, called a window, though it paid no tax to the State, was 
about two feet square, and had been originally glazed, from the 
fragments of a worn-out cucumber frame, purchased, in the post 
town, by the liberal owner of the widow's tenement, at the time 
of its erection. There was scarcely space enough for the admis- 
sion of fresh air — ^thus, the atmosphere within was at all times stag- 
nant and unwholesome. The floor, originally paved with broken 
bricks, had sank into innumerable hollows, so as to render any 
footing, unaccustomed to its numerous inequalities, extremely inse- 
cure. In one corner of the miserable apartment was a straw 
pallet, placed upon the floor, and covered with a tattered rug. 
Across this was laid a long oaken staff, with which the aged 
creature used nightly to scare the rats, when they invaded her 
frequently sleepless pillow. These voracious creatures were the 
only companions of her nightly solitude ; and she was obliged to 
suspend from one of the cross-beams that supported the roof, her 
small modicum of meal; in order to secure it from their nocturnal 
depredations. 



266 THE PAUFEB FUNSRAL. 

For this hovel the wretched tenant paid ninepence a-veek Otti 
of the half-crown allowed hy the parish, leaving one shilling and 
ninepence for cli^h^ and maintenance. She had no other 
resources ; and yet, so rooted was her aversion to the confine* 
ment of a workhouse, that she preferred straggling with the 
severest privations, contriving to live on this pittance, her chief 
food heing meal and potatoes. Her heverage consisted almost 
entirely of the leaves of tea which had heen twice infused— ^once 
by the mistress of one of the few families which had servants in 
the neighbourhood, and secondly by those servants, who, when 
they had obtained all they could from them, by repeated applica- 
tions of boiling water, bestowed them upon the widow as an 
acknowledged luxury. These desiccated tea-leaves the grateful 
creature stewed, day after day, swallowing the diluted dingy 
infusion with an expressed satisfaction and relish that would have 
amazed a modem sybarite, and have forced a cry of wonder from 
the sternest of those ancient simpletons who gloried in privation aa 
their summum bouum, and in physical evil as the consummatioa 
of human excellence. As I have already said, her daily food waS: 
meal and a few potatoes — when she could get them. Beyond 
what casual charity supplied — ^and this was extremely little — these 
were her only nutriment. And yet she daily blessed God for his 
mercies, with a feeling and fervour that has often melted mj 
heart, while it probed my conscience. There was nothing coun* 
terfeit in her submission to the divine infliction — it was radical 
and sincere. Her trial was a sore one, yet she did not repine ; 
for under every pang of her bereavement she rose from it but the 
more assured that there waB treasure laid up for her in another 
and a better world* 

The term of her pilgrimage was now rapidly verging towards 
its close. The solemn warning of death had been already given, 
in her daily increasing weakness, which reduced her frame to a 
state of pitiable prostration. 

One morning I entered her dismal dwelling, and found her 
stretched upon the hard, comfortless bed — on which she had, 
scarcely, for years, passed a night of uninterrupted repose — appa- 
rently in the last stage of her wretched life. She had been, 
attacked, the day previously, with cholera, and it had left her ^ 
feeble that she could with difficidty move her almost fleshleas 
limbs. As soon, however, as I entered she managed to raise 
herself from the hard pallet on which she was lying,, and having 



THE PAUPER PUNEBAL. 267 

weleomed my presence with her usual benedietion of ** God bless 
you," began to repeat one of Watts 'a hymns, with a pathos and 
fervour that surprised me. The tears trickled copiously down her 
grimed and channelled cheeks, as she poured out this humble 
effusion, and talked of God's mercy, in a languid whisper, but 
with visible earnestness, as if she had been one of the most dis- 
tinguished of his creatures. "What a blessing," she observed, 
with the same oppressed utterance, '* that the God of all mercy 
has turned my heart to himself; for I am happy, even in the 
midst of this worldly misery. It has been, however, no world of 
misery to me ; for though my path is straitened, it is, nevertheless, 
the Christian's path — and that is a narrow one — ^to the paradise 
of saints. My body has suffered ; but, having no sore up<m my 
conscience, my mind has been generally at rest. I can die 
without repining, though I 'rejoice with trembling.* " 

During this melancholy interview the parish doctor entered. 
This was his first visit since her terrible attack of the previous 
day. He was a rough, coarse man, with a dim, obtuse counte* 
nance, which indicated insensibility of heart so obviously, that 
you instinctively shrank from his approach. He seemed hale and 
hearty, though past the prime of life ; but the clownish turn of his 
frame, and his vulgar freedom of address, at once showed that he 
was no longer mindful of the " rock whence he was hewed, or the 
hole of the pit whence he was digged. " His intensely black, greasy- 
hair, and sallow complexion ; his dark, glaring eyes, peering from 
under a pair of galled lids, on which the lashes no longer ccln- 
sented to grow ; his fall, purple lips, scaled, cracked, and fenced 
with a double row of broad yellow teeth ; his large, ungainly 
figure, arrayed in a suit of dingy black, added to his harsh, 
Hibernian accent, altogether fixed on the mind of the beholder, at 
the first glance, an impression of obdurate insensibility and callous 
indifference. There was a coarse, sinister grin upon his features 
as he entered, which showed how little he was affected by scenes 
of human suffering. Passing close by where I was seated — upon 
an inverted pail, there being no chair among the poor widow's 
household stuff — ^he took no notice whatever of my presence, but 
walking hurriedly up to the tattered bed upon which his miserable 
|)atient lay, said, in a quick, harsh tone — 

** Well, mother, how are ye ? " At the same time grasping 
her wrist, and counting her pulse by a large silver watch, that 
ticked almost as loud as a Dutch clock. The poor sufferer opened 



268 THE PAUPER FUNERAL. 

her languid eyes, and after she had, with difficulty, cleared her 
throat of the phlegm through which her hreath wheezed, with a 
difficulty painful to hear, replied, in a subdued, husky whisper, 

" Badly, sir — ^very badly. I have no strength. I can but 
poorly breathe. My old limbs ache. There is not an inch of me 
that doesn't suffer." 

" To be sure not," he answered. " How should there ? Why, 
ye Ve been sick enough to kill a horse ; and remember, old 
bodies can't expect to have the strength of young ones." 

" No indeed, sir. I look not for that. I hope I aiu t impa- 
tient. Man is bom to trouble ; and I have proved it. Yet, I 
don't repine. His will be done, who tempers the weather to the 
shorn lamb ! " 

" Aye, this is all very well. Old wives' fables, hey ? But 
ye 're better-^a good deal better than I expected to find ye ; for 
I thought to have found ye gone to yer long home. But ye 'U 
do yet. Cheer up, old lady, and prepare for a beefsteak to-mor- 
row. Meanwhile get some gruel, and take it for yer supper, with 
a table-spoonful of whiskey in it. There's nothing like yer warm 
whiskey for a weak stomach — ^hey." And, with a suppressed 
laugh, he tapped his exhausted patient on the shoulder with his 
riding- whip. * * Don't forget the whiskey. ' ' 

"Lord help me, sir!" exclaimed the poor woman, with an 
extraordinary effort, *' how am I to get whiskey, or even gruel, 
with one-and<ninepence a- week to feed and clothe me ? " 

" Get it ? Can't ye ask yer friend, there ? People don't 
visit sick beds for nothing. 'Tis an expensive hobby, ain't it, 
ma'am ? Ye *11 get the patient what I recommend, hey ? " 

" I shall, sir," said I, "though I have not much faith in the 
prescription." 

" What should you know about it ? — a she-doctor, I suppose. 
Ye had better leave this, ma'am, to men." Then, turning to the 
dying widow, he said, sharply, " Come to me to-morrow morning,, 
and I *11 give ye some stuff to strengthen ye." , 

" Alas ! " she replied, scarcely now able to articulate, ** I 
cannot even crawl along my room, much more walk up to your 
honour's house." 

" Ah, but ye must stir yerself, woman. Walking will do ye 
good. 'Twill make the sluggish blood bound." 

** That 's all past, now. I shall never walk again. My account 
IB summed up." 



THE PAUPER FUNERAt. 269 

** Tut, ye must walk, or, if ye can't, why crawl, for ye miLst 
come to me. 1 can't waste my precious time in running after old 
bodies who are unable to look after themselves. Yer in charge 
of the parish, and ye must get yer patrons to stump down a little 
more brass for better attendance. 'Till ye do, ye must come to 
me, or ye '11 get no physic. A doctor of medicine can't afford, on 
parish allowance, to run after every crone that has the cholic, and 
no money to cure it. I say ye must come to me, or ye '11 see no 
doctor — ^mind that. I have come once, and, as it is, shan't get 
a clear shilling for my visit. Time is money, and I must contrive 
to bring profit out of it in the shape of pounds, shillings, and 
pence. Take yer gruel, mind ; and don't forget the whiskey — if 
ye can get it." Saying this, he turned upon his heel and quitted 
the cottage ; but after a few moments returning to the door, 
bawled out — ** Mind ye don't neglect to see me to-morrow at my 
house, and bring a bottle with ye for the physic, or, if ye han't a 
bottle, bring a bladder." Retreating once more from the scene of 
misery, I heard him ** whistling as he went, for want of thought." 
It were charity to assume this, as a thoughtless man is ever better 
than an insensible one. 

Alas ! for the poor, when they are unfortunate enough to be 
committed to " the tender mercies " of the parish doctor ! How 
often do they fall victims to the neglect of this mercenary func- 
tionary ! I believe thousands in this so-called happy country die 
yearly of sheer neglect. God forbid I should place all parish 
apothecaries in the same category, but from my own knowledge I 
can have no hesitation in saying that there are some among them 
who are anything but an honour to the Christian name. 

I lost no time in preparing the gruel, as soon as the man of 
drugs had given me the benefit of his absence, and pouring some 
brandy into it, which I thought preferable to whiskey, notwith- 
standing the physician's fiat, presented it to the unhappy sufferer, 
who was now groaning with agony. She could only take a few 
spoonfuls. I was induced to stay the longer in this homely dwel- 
ling, as the dying woman had no regular attendant. A neighbour 
came in occasionally to see how she went on, but having herself a 
large family to look after, she could not devote much of her tim^ 
to the requirements of the aged widow. The invalid having 
rallied a little after taking the brandy, I quitted her to make one 
or two visits of a similar kind, which was my daily practice during 
my residence in this wretched neighbourhood. There were several 



270 THE FAUPSB FUNBRAL. 

old women, in a condition Bcareelj less helpless, with no better 
allowance from the parish ; and it was wilh the greatest difiioiilty 
that they could supply the necessities of nature from their miserable 
pittance. Disease is so closely allied to extreme poTerty, that 
death frequently cuts off the sufferer without the assuagement 
which is commonly found at this soleom hour of visitation, and 
thus many die, unpitied and unknown, but to a few of the 
bereayed community by whom they are surrounded, under the sad 
seyerities of their visitation. 

Before the following morning the poor widow was a corpse. She 
presented a dreadful spectacle. Her features had been so dis- 
figured by rats that she was scarcely recognisable. I repaired to 
the house of the doctor, the parish M.D., for he had purchased a 
diploma somewhere, and those letters followed his name on a large 
metal plate upon the door of his surgery. 

" Well," he said, as I stood before his counter, while a dull 
smile dilated his large ulcered lips — '* Well, how 's the old 
woman ? " 

" Dead, sir ! " 

'* Ah ! I guessed as much ; she hadn't a leg to stand on. 
Well, betwixt ye and myself, the parish won't grieve. These old 
folks are a serious incumbrance." 

** The incumbrance, then, has been removed. The sufferer is 
now a saint in heaven." 

''No; d'ye think so? Dye imagine those old gossips find 
such snug quarters when they 're stuffed into the churchyard ? 
The parson teUs us such things, but you know parsons are paid for 
preaching, and pretty stoutly are we taxed for the humbug, hey ? " 

'' Perhaps, sir, you '11 apprise the parish authorities of the death, 
and how attentive you, tiieir stipendiary physician, were to the 
dying woman's wants." 

** What d'ye mean ? 

" Precisely what I say. A good morning and a better con- 
science to you." So saying, I left the " regular practitioner" to 
his reflections. 

The breath was scarcely out of the poor widow's body when the 
parish authorities sent a coffin-maker to measure it for the grave. 
The man so commissioned was a Dissenter, and one of that order 
the most fi^cely opposed to the Established Church. He was a 
Baptist, embracing likewise the extreme views of Calvin, and 
claiming to be one of the elect His hair was cropped close to his 



I) 

97 



THE PAUFEB FUNERAL. 271 

sealp, and, thoagh he assumed a sober, sanctified air, he was 
nerertheless unable to look the piety he would fiain ezpresa. 
Though hostile to the Church, he was encouraged by the guardians 
of the poor, because he made elm coffins for such paupers as were 
buried at the parish expense a fraction cheaper than honester men^ 
who chose to eschew the meeting-house. I met him on his return 
^rom the scene of death. 

**Ahl friend," he exclaimed demurely, " I 'ye a been taking 
the dimensions of one who '11 have a fiery account to settle in the 
next world. I fear that old woman han't died in grace. The 
king of hell has just got another subject for eternal burnings*" 

I was shocked to hear a man so belie his religious professions 
as to speak thus profanely of the dead, but as he was too ignorant 
a person to understand the sincerity of good intentions in any who 
disavowed the extreme creed which he himself embraced, I forbore 
to notice his observations, but passed on in silence. 

On the following day the corpse was put into the rough, un- 
sightly coffin, and screwed down. Upon the cover the initials of 
the widow's name were rudely traced in black paint, with her age, 
seventy-nine years, in figures that would have disgraced the junior 
form of a national school. The unfeeling manner in which this 
** child of grace," as he claimed to be, put the body into its homely 
receptacle, preparatory to its consignment to its kindred dust, 
disgusted me beyond measure. He turned it into the rough elm 
case as if it had been a lump of carrion. I expostulated. He 
looked unutterable indignation, but did not venture to express it, 
performing, however, the remainder of his sad office with more 
decency and apparent respect for the dead. When he had finished 
he quitted the cottage without uttering a word. 

The corpse was now ready for interment, which was to take 
place on the following morning. The man whose indecent obdu- 
racy I have just described, though a "chosen vessel," or **a 
brand plucked from the burning," as he was wont to declare him- 
self to be, was not ashamed to confess himself the father of three 
children by three different mothers, in addition to seven which he 
had by his wife. Such was the "miserable sinner" who had 
dared to proclaim that to be a doomed soul which had been 
eminently resigned to the divine chastisements, not only during 
its union with the body in life, but likewise on the eve of its sepa- 
ration from it in death. 

At an early hour the next day two old men were sent from the 



272 THE PAUPER FUNERAL. 

UnioDj olad in the badges of their social bondage, with a small 
cart drawn by a miserable, lean ass, which had pastured on the 
common, to convey the corpse to the churchyard. The thin, 
•shaggy beast, was scarcely better than a living skeleton. The 
•coffin was placed in this rude hearse, and drawn to the southern en- 
trance of the burial-ground, followed by half-a-dozen ragged children 
screaming and bellowing with unconscious indecorum, and occar 
sionally lifting up their young voices in the coarsest blasphemies. 
Meanwhile the parish clerk, who united in his own person the two 
offices of clerk and sexton, had engaged four men from a field 
hard by to quit their work for half-an-hour, with consent of their 
employer, who was one of the overseers, and bear the body into 
church, whence it was to be shortly conveyed to its final resting- 

• place upon earth. No sooner had the funeral procession, if it 
might be so termed, reached the " place of graves," than the four 
labourers in their smock-frocks, unbleached, tattered and filthy, 
their faces, hands and. feet begrimed with ' clay, took the corpse 
from the cart in which it had been deposited, and placed it upon 
their shoulders, when a ragged pall was thrown over it, covering 
them to the waist. They then moved onw«,rd, preceded by the 
minister, towards the main entrance of the church. Not a single 
mourner followed. The children, however, somewhat awed by the 
ecclesiastical habit of the clergyman, became silent, but immedi- 
ately rushed to the side of the grave. 

The vicar was a small, pale, dapper man, about five-and-fifty, 
who lived only for himself, and loved this world too exclusively ta 
have much regard for the next. He professed to be airiend to 
- the poor, but his friendship was so entirely confined to his profes- 
sions, that it scarcely cost him a funeral fee per annum, which 
was just two shillings and sixpence. He gave a vast deal of — 
advice, but very little money, concluding that by bestowing so 
' much counsel gratis, he dissipated a reasonable fortune upon the 
■parish. They were, however, so ungrateful as to offer him na 
acknowledgment for the boon. His hair had been fresh curled 
for this melancholy occasion; and he wore a broad white silk stock 
that kept his nose in the' air at so obtuse an angle that he seemed 
to have his eye entirely upon heaven, while his whole heart was 
upon' earth, where it was daily accustomed to balance the chances 

* of loss and gain with the nicest arithmetical precision. He 
appeared as spruce as a peacock, strutting before the corpse with 
a mincing step, a gradual swing of the' shoulders, and an occa- 



THEPAUPEA FUNERAL. 273 

sioiud dip of the head, like a militia fuglenum on parade. His 
curled hair and lavender gloves, one of which dangled hetween the 
fingers of his left hand, formed a striking contrast with the 
squalid appearance of the funeral party hy which he was accom- 
panied to the church-door. No relative or friend followed the 
deceased. The coffin-maker preceded the four hearers, and they, 
with the parson and clerk, formed the whole of the procession ; 
the two pld men from the Union having retired from the church- 
yard gate as soon as they had resigned their charge into, the cus- 
tody of those who had undertaken, for the small remuneration of 
a shilling a head, to hear it to its final destination. 
. When the coffin was placed upon the tressels, the four hurly 
lahourers sat heside it, squalid with mud, listening with listless 
apathy to the thin squeaking voice of the minister, who read, with 
^ected solemnity, the imposing service for the dead. It was, in 
truth, a pitiahle sight. I was present, and never did I witness 
anything so appallingly sorrowful. Nothing could he more cold than 
thfe manner in which the service was delivered. The indifference 
of every one engaged was painfully manifest. . The hearers, the 
clerk — and these, including myself, formed the entire congrega- 
tion — seemed to have caught the feeling of the clergyman, being 
alike insensible to the solemn act they were severally assembled 
in God's house to perform. The former, with their soiled faces 
and tattered attire, looked more like, the grim ministers of death, 
than sober rustics taking part in the obsequies of a poor neighbour. 
They were seated close by the coffin, and one of them rested his 
arms on it, gaping round upon the pillars and ceiling of the sacred 
edifice, as if it were the first time he had been within the walls of 
a church. The clerk gabbled over that beautiful psalm selected 
for this solemn occasion, with such indecent haste, that no one 
could mistake how little interest he took in what. was going on. 

In due time the corpse was again placed upon the shoulders <^ 
the bearers and borne to the greiVe, beside which it was laid on 
two ragged ropes, that appeared as if they had been similarly 
employed for several past generations. The grave was nearly 
half filled with water, which was baled out by the clerk before the 
clergyman could proceed. So loose was the soil above, that a 
plai^ had been fixed on both sides with staves across, to prevent 
the earth from falling in. When the body was ready to be 
lowered, the staves and planks were removed ; but scarcely had 
this been accomplished than a large body of clay rolled from either 

NO. XZZIU.— TOL. VI. T 



274 Tffil PAUPER PVKSEAL, 

side with a dtdl heavj splash into the bottom of the pit, nearly haliP^ 
filling it. A portion of this was removed with much difficulty, and 
after considerable delay, the body was hrarriedly dropped upon the 
remaining mass. Even then the upper part of the coffin reached 
to within half-a^yard of the surface. The confusim and busy 
indifference of the parties engaged, during the whole scene, made 
so painful an impression, that my heart recoiled with indignation 
and disgust. The unseemly impatience of the minister was no less 
offensive than the utter absence of feeling displayed by his subor- 
dinate in office, and the four men who had been hired for a shilling 
a head at the parish cost, to perform a Ohristian duty. 

The remainder of the service, after the body had been com- 
mitted — *^ earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," — ^was 
hurried over with unbecoming rapidity, lest the damp ground 
should chill the reverend pastor's blood ; and, when it was con- 
cluded, he skipped from the church-yard into the vicarage with an 
alacrity that showed how little sympathy he had with human 
wretchedness, and how little the death of the poor widow had 
impressed his heart. In truth, he was the idol of his own worship, 
but I believe he was that idola only worshipper. Out of a large 
income of more than two thousand a year, of wMch he did not sp^id 
one fourth part, he distributed not in chanty one farthing in the 
pound. He only gave spiritual counsel, if, indeed, that could be 
said to be given for wMch the parish paid him several hundred 
pounds per annum. 

That same evening his demand of half-a-crown upon the over* 
seer was satisfied, and after a few weeks, the lonely spot where 
the poor widow had been interred, under circumstances so harrow- 
ing to a sympathetic heart, had been trampled flat by the urchins 
of the village school, and there no longer remained any memorial 
of her upon earth. 



275 



A WORD OR TWO ON CHANGES* 



SiMULTAKEOUS witJi crefttioKi was the birth of a spirit, subtle, 
insinuating, and oft-times imperceptible in progress, but mighty, 
comprehensive, and all-pervading. The most magnificent of- 
Nature*s works is too weak to check its course, and the most 
insignificant atom of her frame is not suffieienilj- unimportant 
to elude its influence. It sweeps with its shadowy wing the bright 
glories of the proudest empire, and leaves its impress on the 
leaf that whirls in the eddies of the autumn wind. Over city 
and hamlet, palace and hut — over mountain and plain, forest 
and desert — over ocean and sky, over earth and its inhabitants, 
over all things animate and inanimate, flows the silent and resist- 
less tide of change. The. principle of change, as applied to the 
reproductive operations of animal and vegetable life, is exceedingly 
beautiful, and perfect in its philosophy. However anomalous it . 
may seem, it is the very spirit of perpetuation — ^the safeguard of 
future existence — ^the interposing shield between life and annihila- 
tion. The transition of the chrysalis to the gorgeous butterfly — 
of the acorn to the kingly oak — of the diminutive seed to the 
sweet flower, whose perfume and beauty gladden the heart, and 
awaken a thousand assodatious, teaches us that the design of 
change is improvement; ^lat its march is onward, and that 
its destination is perfection. Instructive as it is to trace the 
workings of change through the progressive movements of the 
physicfd world, they acquire tenfold interest when viewed in 
connection with seutient beings ; and the influence of change 
on the hopes, plans, ambitions, and affections of mankind, pre- 
sents to us a page, teeming with greater wonders than fiction ever 
dared to represent, and abounding with passages of the deepest 
pathos. Man has generally been characterised as ''£ond of 
change," but this is true only as far as regards a change of his 
own seeking ; having exhausted one round f^ter another of occu- 
pation or pleasure, his restless spirit prompts him to seek fresh 
excitement in imtried scenes ; but to the general and universal 
principle he is naturally averse, and his whole life is a series of 

T 2 



276 A WORD OR TWO ON CHANGES. 

efforts to fortify himself against its encroachments, and to sur-. 
romid himself with treasures, whose durability, he vainlj flatters 
himself, will outlast its effacing touch. The schoolboy cuts his 
name in the glossy stem of the beech, under whose waving foliage 
he has wiled away the hoUday afternoon, in the vague and 
unexpressed hope that something connected with himself will 
remain when he is gone and forgotten ; the poet travails in 
mental labour, denying himself rest and relaxation, consuming 
the ** midnight oil" and his health together, that there may be 
retained, 

** When the original la dust^ 
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.'^ 

The man who all his life has been scraping up wealth (a 
scavenger generally of the most dirty description), consoles him- 
self, when called to part from it, with the reflection that " the 
property will be kept in the family ;" and the high-born aristocrat 
is gratified with the idea, that the name and honours of his 
illustrious line will be perpetuated by his heir, sleeping, all 
unconscious of the coming greatness, in his costly cradle. 
However varied may be the objects which twine themselves round 
our hearts, we are all actuated by one impulse— to shelter them 
from the swelling stream of Time and Change ; and we are 
iaiy busied in erecting our puny barriers agoinst the rising waters. 
Well is it for us, that the operations of change are (for the most 
pkri) gentle as they are mighty, — imperceptibly extracting some 
closely-grasped toy from our reluctant hand, and slipping into its 
vacant place, some new substitute ere we are well aware of our 
loss : happy is it for us too, that in its more startling transitions, 
we possess that pliability which so soon accommodates itself to 
circumstances; otherwise, how could we behold the fragments. of 
precious hopes, wrecked and home away on the restless waves of 
dhange ? How familiar to us is the exclamation, ** I saw So-and- 
So to-day — ^haven't seen him before for years — not a bit altered 
that I can see ! " True, not that you can see ; change may have 
passed its hand lightly over his features and form, but are you 
sure it hak not been at work within ? Has not its passing shadow 
darkened his ''schemes of hope and pride?" Is his heart as 
fresh, is his faith as unsuspecting, are lus affections as happy and 
pure, as in the days that are gone ? Does he still view things 
through the bright but delusive medium of roseate fancy, or has 
wisdom brought sorrow for its companion, and cold calculation^ 



A WOn» OR TWO ON CHANGES. 277 

bred of bitter experience, extinguished the last lingering spark of 
generous fire ? Does he enter now upon projects with the energy 
of a mind that believes in the existence of their remunerative 
capabilities, or does he go through them with the dull and wearj 
air of one who feels them to be but ** vanity and vexation of 
spirit ? " 

Alas ! we know that the kernel may be withered, while 
the shell is untouched — that change may spare the form, only to 
blight the mind-^and that the heart may grow grey, while yet 
the hair is bright ! Oh, spirit of change ! cold is thy touch ; and 
thou leavest in thy track, the chill of desolation round many a 
deserted hearth, long time the gathering-place of happy faces — 
the rally ing-point of those who are striving in the world's warfare, 
and the sacred abode of the dear Penates. Few things are cal- 
culated to make a more painful impression of the nature of 
change, than the view of empty rooms, once containing within 
their walls so much of the warmth and light and joy. of life ; 
there is a voice in their silence ever proclaiming the mutability of 
human things ; the dull ashes in the cheerless grate are emblema- 
tical of the decaying embers aforetime brightly burning in bosoms 
now changed and cold ; the remnants of string which lie about on 
the floors, are types of the broken fibres which once bojund some 
fond heart to a cherished object — severed now, and bleeding, but 
still refusing to quit their hold. It is nothing to teU :us that 
*' the change is for the better,'* that ** they were glad to leave,'* 
that ** they would be much better off when they were gone," &c. 
Who but has felt the fallacious character of such comfort in the 
bitterness of a parting hom*? Their worldly prospects may be 
better ; they may, perhaps, have a larger share of the good 
things (as they are called) of this life ; but think you that a place 
to eat and drink and sleep in, constitutes a home f Even *.* the ox 
knows its owner, and the ass his master's crib ;" and if the 
brutes discover a predilection for their accustomed stalls, shall 
the spirit feel no clinging to the spot so identified with its joys and 
griefs — a spot hallowed by affection, and endeared even by 
sufiering ; where some we love have lisped their first words, 
and others have breathed their last sighs. 

Ye weary-hearted exiles in a foreign land^ do ye find full com- 
pensation in its warmer skies and richer soil, for the wrench that 
plucked your hearts np' by the roots from their native earth ? 
Does the brighter glow of the Ausonian sun counteract the; cold- 



278 A WORD OB TWO ON CHAyOES 

ness of the stranger's regard ? Do the ezuherant riches of nature 
scattered around you, satisfy the cravings of the hanished spirit ? 
Perhaps there is scarcely an individual hut feels an undefined 
sensation of regret, a kind of mournful forehoding at the thought 
of change ; nevertheless, like adversity, it has it uses. It is the 
salt in the ocean of life, which, however it may impart a hitter 
taste to its waters, keeps them flowing in purity and whole- 
someness. Every improvement in science, arts, laws, cust<Hne, 
literature, national or individual character, springs from the 
principle of change — ^it is as a vast thoroughfare, a *' right 
-of way," for the ever-shifting and innumerable atoms which 
make ** the sum of human things"— the " side-wings,** through 
which the *' dramatis personce** of life's farce, shall we call 
it ? or tragedy ? may pass in one guise, and repass in anothec. 
The existence of change is the life of hope ; and the knowledge 
that no state of things is for ever, has contributed to the support of 
many a luckless wight, who has been fain to console himself with 
those fragments of philosophy, those crumbs of stoicism, shaken 
from the cloth of Plato's table. 

" Well," say they, " it 's a long lane that has no turning, and 
when a change does come, it must be for the better — that *s one 
comfort ; " and with the mare reckless or despairing, ** Ah ! 
well, never mind my boy, it will be all one a hundred years 
hence ; " thus illustrating, in their poor attempts at consola- 
tion, the universal expectations which hang upon the movementa 
of change. Although the principle of change is the same in all 
cases, there is a wide distinction in the mode of its ministration. 
Its operations in the physical world are gradual, regular, and cer- 
tain in their developments, producing a succession of results which 
may be confidently expected, and so great is their precision, that 
some of the finest sciences are based upon the unfailing order that 
characterises their revolutions ; but the same power, in its exercise 
over the condition and welfare of man, is more erratic than the 
wildest meteor that ever flashed its beautiful but unearthly light 
across the pale stars ; such changes have no precedent, nor can 
we gather from the phases of the last, any indication of the nature 
of the next. The man who lies down to sleep in the proud ccn- 
ficiousness of being the head of a nation, may be awakened in the 
morning with the intelligence that a numerous company propose to 
themselves the gratification of presently witnessing the loss of his- 
own ; while another who has pined for yearo in a dungeon^ and wl»> 



A WORD &^ XmO OH. CHANGES. 279 

has been of no more account than the fungus on its mouldy wall, 
may be suddenly pressed into the vacant seat by the same fickle 
and irresistible influence. Natural objects, in the systematic 
accuracy of their mutations, Beem (by comparison with the wilder 
freaks of man's changeful destiny) to be almost immutable. There 
is the sheet of water, on whose rushy margin, rod in hand, we 
•took our boyish pastime ; it is as blue and bright as ever ; the 
'fish leap up with the same joyous splash, and the May>fly dances 
on its sunlit surface as mernly as of yore ; the thrush whistles as 
blithely in that blossoming orchard, as in the days when we roved 
through it in our predatory excursions ; and each well-remembered 
feature of the old house seems, through its ivy-tresses, to smile an 
invitation to its long-forgotten visitants. But where are they 
whose hilarity we were wont to join, and whose hospitality we were 
so often pressed to share ? 

" Some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scattered and alone.'* 

How does the remembrance of the* happy days of old gleam with 
•a mournful beauty through the dark clouds of change I How 
saddening is the thought, that its hand is mighty only to despoil, 
not to reitorCf the precious things of life ! Yet does change 
contain in its full quiver one arrow more keen and deadly than 
the rest. When the eye that has long read in our glances the 
history of our heart's love, passes by us with a cold and averted 
gaze ; when the face that used to meet us with kindling smiles 
wears "the look of a stranger ; " when we feel that we are no 
longer identified with a single throb of that heart which once beat 
only for us, then we have the bitter consolation of knowing that 
change has done its worst work, and we can smile at its further 
threatening frowns. It is painful to lose our friends by separation, 
but still we lose them as friends, and though distance may divide 
us, our spirits can maintain their familiar intercourse. More pain- 
ful and solemn is it, to lose those who are dear to us by death, but 
still we lose them while yet affection is reciprocal ; we follow them 
to the confines of another world with offices of tenderness and love, 
and when they are removed from our sight, their memory is as 
sweet fragrance to our soiUs. But when "the thing we love " 
lives, and is estranged, there is a gap between us, deep and wide, 
which we can neither fill up nor cross over ; then the past is a 
4esoli^tion, the. present is bitterness, the future is 9, bUtnk, and 



280 VfiWw BOOKS. 

the only anodyne the crushed heart can hope to find, is the lethargy 
of forgetfnlness ! Thus doth the invisible spirit of change steal on 
in its mysterious course, revivifjing the flower, but dimming the 
eyes that behold its beauty; pouring new freshness through 
exhausted nature, but mocking the heart by the contriut of its 
own barrenness ; and thus, leagued with Time, will it relentlessly 
pursue the brightest and fairest things of earth till Heayen's man- 
date shall declare that time shall be no more, and change, as far 
AS it relates to the existence of the immaterial and immortal, shall 
he fixed in eternal unchangeableness. 

A.J. 



K^b) ldOO&0* 



JPaiENDS IN Council : A Series of Readings and Discourse thereon. 

Book the First. Post 8vo. W. Pickering. 

The capacity of thinking, after all that has been said of the power 
of the mind, is a ngre, ana perhaps in its exercise a painful faculty. 
But few persons, think, whilst, according to the quaint expression of a 
quotation of Leigh Hunt, "many think they think!" We are all 
impressionable, and our sensibilities are pretty equally developed, 
wmlst undoubtedly thousands are bom and die who never exercise the 
faculty of thinking so as to produce, even to themselves, a new thought. 
Thinking, according to the interpretation of the word we now adopt, is 
4)ut observing the relation of things, whether intellectual or physical; but 
who does this for himself 1 which of us but runs to seize the crutdi 
which others have made, to assist out of this laborious process. To 
men who live happily in a series of sensations thinking is an intolerable 
bore : and numerous literary men subsist only by a vivid revival of 
what the senses have recorded : these are your fast writers, and an 
antipathy, compounded of scorn and dread, exists towards the slow 
wretches who would, even in the most superficial style, poiiit out the 
relations of things by unfolding Uiie processes of nature. The whole of 
our modem education, and much of our pursuits, foster this habit of 
mind. The young ladies, who know more of astronomy than Ptolemy 
did, still are by ho means mentally improved, for it is a mere sensar 
tional knowledge that they have acquired : and they may know how to 
number all the constellations of the heavens, or even calculate an 
•eclipse, and still have never exercised any power of thinking. It is 



KBW B0OK&. 281 

from this poverty of reflection that onrageis so comparatiyel^ small. 
We are great in the aggregate, but certainly small in the -individnal : 
for we have not the simplicity of ignorance, nor its confidingnesd, 
whilst we have much of the arrogance of knowledge, without the 
mental strength it should brine. 

In the present work, amidst much surplusage in form and some 
tediousness of style, we see the power of thinking. We have new ideas 
upon new subjects. The relations of things undeveloped before are 
laid bare, and the author is entitled to rank as an essayist. It is a 
book that a statesman might have written, and that statesmen may 
read with profit. The auUior is a lover of wisdom, and his knowledge 
is wide enough to know that every subject may stretch beyond the 
horizon of his mental vision ; and that, consequently, the old dictatorial 
style that pretended to exhaust a subject is not tenable. Whatever 
proposition he adopts he subjects to the test of others, and thus lets in 
light from an opposite side. Some readers, and indeed most, prefer 
the decisive dogmatism that either fortifies a prejudice, or blocks out of 
their narrow arena any opposing opinion : and such will pronounce the 
present author weak because he is candid, and unsatisfactory because 
tie is honest. 

We gather as much from his book as it is permitted for one mind to 
impart to another. We see opinions in a new light, and have new 
relations laid open : at the same time our own reflective powers are put 
in motion — the greatest benefit a writer can bestow on his reader ; and 
our minds are not only informed but purified. 

We shall select a few samples to give an idea of the mode of treat- 
ment, and thus, we trust, induce the reader to refer to the work itself. 

CONFORMITY. 

*' Few, however, are those who venture, even for the shortest time, into that 
hazy world of independent thought, where a man is not upheld by a crowd 
of other men's opinions, but where he must find a footing of his own. Among 
-the mass of men, there is little or no' resistance to conformity. Could the 
history of opinions be fully written, it would be seen* how large a part in 
human proceedings the love of coDformity, or rather the fear of non-confor- 
mity, has occasioned. It has triumphed over all other fears ; over love, hate, 
pity, sloth, anger, truth, pride, comfort, self-interest, vanity and maternal 
love. It has torn down the sense of beauty in the human soul, and set up in 
its place little ugly idols which it compels us to worship with more than 
Japanese devotion. It has contradicted nature in the most obvious things, 
-and been listened to with abject submission. Its empire has been no less 
extensive than deep-seated. The serf to custom points his finger at the slave 
to fashion — as if it signified whether it is an old, or a new, thing which is 
irrationally conformed to; The man of letters despises both the slaves of 
fashion and of custom, but often runs his narrow career of thought, shut up, 
though he sees it not, within dose walls which he does not venture even to 
f>eep over." 



282 4IEW BOOKS. 

RBGRBATIOll. 

^ I hare seen it qnoted from Aristotle, that the end of labour is to gain 
leisure. It is a great saving. We have in modem times a totally vrrong 
view of the matter. Noble work is a noble thing, but not all work. Most 
people seem to tliink that any buedness is in itself something grand ; that to 
be intensely employed, for instance, about something which has uo truth, 
beauty, or usefulness in it, which makes no man happier or wiser, is still ti^ 
perfection of human endeavour, so that the work be intense. It is the inten- 
sity, not the nature, of the work, that men praise. You 8ee the extent of 
this feeling in little tilings. People are so ashamed of beiug caught for a 
moment icUe, that if you come upon the most industrious servants or work- 
men whilst they are standing looking at something which interests them, or 
fairly resting, they move off m a fright, as if they were proved, by a moment's 
relaxation, to be neglectful of their work. Yet it is the result that they 
should mainly be judged by, and to which they should appeal. But amongst 
all classes, the working itself, incessant working, is the thing deified. Now 
what is the end and object of most work t To provide for animal wants. 
Not a contemptible thing by any means, but still it is not all in all with man. 
Moreover, in those cases Yrhere the pressure of bread-getting is fairly past, 
we do not often find men's exertions lessened on that account. There enter 
into their minds as motives, ambition, a love of hoarding, or a fear of leisure^ 
things which, in moderation, may be defended or even justitieil, but which 
are not so peremptorily and upon the face of them excellent, that they at onoe 
dignify excessive labour. 

'* The truth is, that to work insatiably requires much less mind than to 
work judiciously, and less courage, than to refuse work that cannot be 
done honestly. For a hundred men whose appetite for work can be driven 
on by vanity, avarice, ambition, or a mistaken notion of advancing their 
families, there is about one who is desirous of expanding his own nature and 
the nature of others in all directions, of cultivating many pursuits, of bring- 
ing himself and those around him in contact with the univei'«e in many 
points, of being a man and not a machine.'* 

LIVING WITH OTHERS. 

'* In the first place, if people are to live hi^pily together, they must not 
fancy, because tiiey are thrown together now, that all tlieir lives have 
been exactly similar up to the present time, that they started exactly 
. alike, and that they are to be for the future of the same mind. A thorough 
conviction of the difference of men is the great thing to be assured of 
in social knowledge : it is to life what Newton's law is to astronomy. Some- 
times men have a knowledge of it with regard to the world in general : they 
do not expect the outer world to agree with them in all points, but are 
vexed at not being able to drive their own tastes and opinions into tliose they 
live with. Diversities distress them. They will not see that there are many 
forms of virtue and wisdom. Yet we might as well say, ^ Why all these 
stars ; why this difference ; why not all one star ?' 

*' Many of the rules for people living together in peace, follow from the 
above^ For instance, not to mterfere unreasonably with otliers, not to 
ridicule their tastes, not to question and re-question their resolves, not to 



jfim Boexs. 283 

indulge in perpetual comment -on their inrooeedings, and to delight in their 
having other pursuits than ours, are all based upon a thorough perception of 
the simple fact, that they are not we. 

^ Another rule for hiring happily with others, is to avoid having stock 
subjects of disputation. It mostly happens, when people live much together, 
that they come to have certain set topics, around which, from frequent dis- 
pute, there is such a growth of angry words, mortified vanity and tlie like, 
that the original subject of difference becomes a standing subject for quarrel ; 
and there is a tendency in all minor disputes to drift down to it. 

'* Again, if people wish to Uve well together, they must not hold too much 
to logic, and suppose that everything is to be settled by sufficient reason. 
Dr. Johnson saw this clearly with regard to married people, when he said, 
* Wretched would be the pair, above all names of wi'etehedness, who. should 
be doomed to adjust by reason, every morning, all the minute de.tail 
of a domestic day.* But the application should be much more general than 
he made it. There is no time for such reasonings, and nothing mat is wortli 
them. And when we recollect how two lawyers, or two poUticians, can go 
on contending, and that there is no end of one-sided reasoning on any 
subject, we shall not be sure that such contention is the best mode for 
arriving at truth. But certainly it is not the way to arrive at good temper. 

'< If you would be loved as a companion, avoid unnecessary criticism upon 
those with whom you live. The number of people who have taken out 
judge's patents for themselves is very large in any society. Now it would 
be hard for a man to live with another who was always criticising his actions, 
even if it were kindly and just criticism. It would be like living between the 
glasses of a microscope. But these self-elected judges, Hke their prototypes^ 
are very apt to have the persons they judge brought before them in the 
guise of culprits. 

** One of the most provoking forms of the criticism above alluded to, is 
that which may be called criticism over the shoulder.' * Had I been con- 
sulted,' ' had you listened to me,' < but you always will,' and such short scraps 
of sentences may remind many of us of dUssertatiojjis which we have 
suffered and inflicted, and of which we cannot call to mind any soothing 
effect 

" Another rule is, not to let familiarity swallow up all courtesy. Many of 
us have a habit of saying to those with whom we Uve such things as we say 
about strangers behind their backs. There is no place, however, where real 
politeness is of more value than where we mostly think it would be super- 
fluous. You may say more truth, or rather speak out more plainly, to your 
associates, but not less courteously, tiian you do, to strangers. 

" Again, we must not expect more from the society of our friends and 
companions than it can ^ve ; and especially must not expect contrary 
things. It is somewhat arrogant to talk of travelling over other minds 
(mind being, for what we know, infinite): but still we become familiar with 
the upper views, tastes, and tempers of our associates. And it is hardly in 
man to estimate justiy what is familiar to him. In travelling along at night, 
as Ha:ditt says, we catch a glimpse into cheerful looking rooms with light 
blazing in them, and we conclude, involuntarily, how happy the inmates must 
be. Yet there is Heaven and HeH in those rooms, the same Heaven and Hell 
tliat vn have known in oifaers." 



281 KEW BOOKS. 

COMPANIONSHIP. 

' *' MUveiion. It is a sad thing to consider how much of their abilities 
people torn to tiresomeness. You see a man who would be very agreeabld 
if he were not so observant : another who would be charming, if he were 
deaf and dumb : a third delightful, if he did not vex all around him with 
superfluous criticism. 

^ EUetmere, A hit at me that last, I suspect But I shall go on. You 
have not, I think, made enough merit of independence in companionship. If 
I were to put into an aphorism what I mean, I should say. Those who depend 
wholly on companionship, are the worst companions : or Uius, Those deserve 
csompanionsbip who can do without it.** 

INDIVIDUALITY. 

^ There is one thing that people hardly ever remember, or, indeed, have 
imagination enough to conceive ; namely, tlie effect of each man being shut 
up in his individuality. Take a lone course of sayings and doings in which 
many persons have been engaged. Each one of them is in his own mind the 
centre of the web, though, perhaps, he is at the edge of it. We know that 
in our observations of the tnings of sense, any difference in the points from 
which the observation is taken, gives a different view of the same thine. 
Moreover, in the world of sense, Sie objects and the points of view are ea^ 
indifferent to the rest ; but in life the points of view are centres of action 
that have had something to do with the making of the things looked at. If 
we could calculate the moral parallax arising from this, we e^oold see, by the 
mere aid of the intellect, how unjust we often are in our complaints of ingra- 
titude, inconstancy and neglect. But without these nice calculations, such 
errors of view may be corrected at once bv humility, a more sure method 
than tlie most enlightened appreciation of the cause of error. Humility iS 
the true cure for many a needless heartache." 

But we could fill pages with such extracts, and must therefore leave 
the reader to enter into a contest with the book itself: we, in the 
mean time, looking desiringly for the second volume. 



Stories and Studies from the Chronicles and History of England. 
By Mrs. S. C. Hall and Mrs. J. Foster. 2 vols, post 8vo. Darton & Co. 

History is a necessary study for the young, and yet they do not take 
to it spontaneously. It is never found that when any pocket-money is 
to be spent that they think ofpurchasing a history of any kind, without 
it be that of "Martin the Foundling, and yet history is the very 
foundation of modem fiction. Children of a larger growth it must he 
confessed, have had recourse to romance to learn the leading facts of 
our nation's story, and others, besides Marlborough, have luiown no 
more of it than what they gleaned from Shakspeaie's plays. To this 
ngreeable medium have now been added the Waverley Novels, with 
collateral branches by Bulwer, James, and a long list. A taste so 



2^W BOOKS*. . 285v 

nniyersal and indestractible would tend to prove that the fault was not 
all on one side ; and that the literary taste that revolted from the food 
offered to it was justified from the nature of the crude and dry pabulum* 
A long political History of England is like a treatise on chess or mathe- 
matics to a person understanding neither. And a miserable curt 
abridgment, stuffed full of bald facts, such as battles, and the births 
and deaths of people, that a child, and indeed for that matter, a man, 
can have no interest in, except for some human interest to be raised for 
them, is enough to drive them for ever from such reading. This has 
long been felt, and many before the authors of the present volumes 
have endeavoured to throw the narratives of the chief events of history 
into an interesting form. To Sir Walter Scott, however, belongs the 
merit of having conquered the difficulty, and we are inclined to go fur- 
ther even than Thierry, the gr^at French historian, and think that more 
than half of the real history of the period is to be found in " Ivanhoe.'* 
Certainly, if only one portion could be read, we think more true know* 
ledge might be found of Richard Coeur de Lion's reign in the romance 
than in the professed history. 

It must not, however, be conceived that every flimsy sentimental 
story, based on the historical fact, is of value. Such unwholesome 
verbiage is worse than unidealess history. If nothing but bare sticks 
can be had, let them be planted, and peradventure in a good soil they 
may fructify into truths. The present attempt is wanting in vigour. 
It 18 history cut out in fine woven paper. It is too fine ; too pure for 
the genuine substance. Like some of our much-admired modem 
painters, all is so smooth, so glossy, so smug, that it loses its vraisem- 
blance. It cannot be denied that there is a very delicate perception of 
the moralities : a fine sense of the heroic, but a want of boldness and 
breadth, that renders the stories and pictures weak and vague. Run- 
ning through our history from Brutus even to Victoria, there is, however, 
much that must excite the attention of the young reader, and awaken 
an interest that will induce him to seek mrther information in the 
pages of the more regular historians ; and, if properly inducted through 
the medium of the old chroniclers, probably induce a taste for this 
important branch of literature. We should indeed have said that the 
narrative is frequently carried on by means of quotations from the old 
chroniclers ; and no scholastic reader need be informed how deeply 
their pages are imbued with Human feeling. The illustrations of each, 
monarch s reign are somewhat too brief, and the subjects are not 
selected in a very striking manner ; nor is there any distinctive force 
either of remark or narrative. They however supply a want, and will, 
as we have already said, stimulate the curiosity of the young. After 
all, we do not know a more likely mode of interesting the young reader 
in his country-'s histories than giving him the historical plays of Shak- 
speare te read. A subsequent exercise might be correcting or verifying 
such errors of fact and date as occur. .,.'-. 



286 9gw BOOfii^ 

The following extract is one of tSie best specime&g of tlieve Hhutm- 
tions of old times and crimes :— * 

THE PROIBSTANTS OF HABt^S DAT. 

^ Among the many English hearts whom the accession of Mary filled with 
terror and dismay, none beat more anxiously than did that of the Duchess or 
Suffolk, widow of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and lately become the 
Urife of Richard Bertie, a person of liberal education^ but of Tcry obscure' 
HrQi, and — duiger of dangers ! — a Protestant ! ! 

** This lady was the daughter and heiress of the ninth Lord Willoughby ; 
and her mother, a Spanii^ lady of high birth, had been maid of honour to 
Catharine of Arnigon. But in the preceding reign she had made herself an 
object of hatred to Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, by an insulting display 
of her abhorrence for his hideous character, and her contempt for his 
religion. She now felt all the imprudence of this proceeding ; she knew 
well that her high birth and splendid connections would be altogether insuffi- 
cient to shield her from the vengeance of the remorseless prelate, and 
already beheld herself among the earliest victims of the misguided Mary's 
sanguinary decrees. 

*^ Two chances of escape remained to her — she must renounce her religion, 
or resign herself to a voluntary banishment from her native Isnd, and it was 
the last that she resolved on. But those days were not as onni ; it was not 
at her own good pleasure and in open day that the dudiess might depart* 
from the land where every hour threatened her with imprisonment, torture, 
and death ; but in silence and secrecy, cowexizu; beneath the shades of night, 
and in dread of ^scovery at every step, was she compelled to steal from her 
home, as though hurrying from tiiepunishment of crime. 

" A license for himself to leave England had already been procured by 
Bichard Bertie, on the pretext of business demanding his presence in Flan- 
ders, and when news of his safe anival on a foreign shore reached the 
duchess, she stole from her house in Barbican — a region that boasts few 
duchesses now-a-days~with her little daughter, not yet two years old, in her 
arms ; and taking boat on the Thames, was thus conveyed to a port in 
Kent, where she embarked. 

** But when already within sight of a less dangerous strand, the terrified 
lady was driven back by stress of weather, and ^ter much peril compelled 
to put in to an^ English port. She fortunately found means to re-embark 
A>me few days after, and at length rejoined her husband at Santon, in the 
Duchy of Cleves. 

** Ajud here the harassed couple began to breathe, but no long time elapsed 
before they were again compelled to fly, by a discovery that 3ie Bishop of 
Arras was on the point of sending them back to the tender mercies of his 
brother prelate, the Bishop of Wmchester. It was on a dark October night 
that they were again driven forth, Bertie loaded with what valuables they 
«ould snatch up in their hurried escape, and the duchess carrying her chilcL 
Four miles through mud and rain did the desolate wanderers proceed on 
foot, the duchess in daily expectation of her confinement, and witii difilcolty 
dmgffing herself along. 

''At length they gained the town of Weseli but their appeanmce waa so 



wild and wi*eti:lied, tlist thcK innkeepers refused to receive them. Over- 
whelmed by this last misfortune, the suffering lady sank exhausted : dragging 
her into a church porch, her husband then left her to make further efforts 
for procuring shelter^ and here, in all the misery and desolation that 
surrounded her, did the unhappy duchess give birth to a s&n — afterwards . 
that Lord Willoughby D'Eresby, whose name you will see making a brilliant 
figure in the reign of Elizabeth, from whom he wrung a reluctant and 
iragracious recognition of his rights. Of this event works more diffuse and 
more important than the slight sketch I am here giving you will inform you, 
in your more extended read^gs— our business is with his suffering mother. 

** Bertie was, memwhile, seeking anxiously through the streets for the 
sibode of a Walloon minister, to whom the duchess had shown kindness 
in England ; and, hearing two students exchange a few Words in Latin, he 
approached, and accosting them in that language, received a direction to the 
house he sought. Accompanied by the worthy pastor and his wife, Bertie 
now returned to his unfortunate lady, who was instantly conveyed with her 
infant to the parsonage, where all that the most grateful affection could 
devise was done for her comfort and restoration. Here she quickly recovered 
her health, and for some time remained in peace ; a fresh alarm then 
obtiged her husband to remove her into the dominions of the Palgrave, and 
Utte money and jewels they had brought with them being, after some time, 
exhausted, they were reduced to the most bitter distress. 

''At this crisis a friend of the duchess made her situation known to the 
King of Poland, who invited her at once to his protection ; the exiled family 
reached Poland through many dangers, and after many very narrow escapes.. 
But puce there, the accomplishments of Bertie soon gained the favour of the 
sovereign ; a large domain was assigned to them by their princely protector, 
and here they lived * in greate honoure and tranquillitie,' till the accession 
of Elizabeth permitted their return to their native land." 

It should have been added, that tales as touching could be told of. 
escapes frohi Protestant persecution in those times of " no toleration*" 



A Guide to the Birth-Town of Shakspere, and the Poet's Rural 
. Haunts. By George May. Fcap. 8vo. G. May. 

Though many guide-books and descriptions of Stratford-on-Avon arfe 
extant, we sincerely welcome the present well-timed addition. It 
conveys in a clear manner the present state of the remains associated 
with Shakspere's name ; and we are glad to be reminded that so much 
still exists, though so much and such wilful waste has been made. The 
total destruction of the house in which the poet spent his last years, 
by the Rev. Mr. Gastrell, in 1759, can never be sufficiently deplored, 
and we were almost about to be uncharitable enough to say, sufficiently 
execrated. That would have been an undoul^ted memorial, and one 
ydih which the most vivid imaginings of the man could have been 
associated. There was the garden, as planned by himself, and the 



288 NEW BOOKS. 

chambers in which he dwelt, and where he doubtless received, at that 
last fatal meeting, Ben Jonson and Drayton, as well as all Uie other 
illustrious poets at previous times. 

The house in Henle7-street, said to be that of his birth, is by no 
means so interesting. In the first place, it has undergone very great 
changes ; and again, there is no very strong evidence of Shakspere^s 
birth having taken place there. There is, however, but little doubt 
that he passed a considerable part of his boyhood there, and from thence 
started to the great world that he was afterwards so materially to 
modify by his ffenius. There are still left also several interesting spots 
thai an effort should be made to preserve as much as possible in tneir 
pristine form and state. The Grammar-school, where he no doubt 
received his ^' small Latin and less Ghneek." The Hall of the Ancient 
Gild, underneath the school, where in Elizabeth's days dramatic per» 
formances took place, and where it is b^ no means improbable the 
young actor and future dramatist may himself have appeared. The 
Church has received every proper attention, and is in itself an object 
of great interest, and as containing the tomb of the greatest genius of 
modem, and perhaps of any time, is well worthy of every care. The 
Cottage of Anne Hathawaye at Shottery is also in tolerable preserva- 
tion, as is the old English mansion of the Lucys at Cliarlecote. 

It would seem that there is still sufficient remaining of the haunts 
and home of the poet to make his birthplace a grateful rendezvous to 
all who, feeling ardently towards his works, desire to indulge that 
personal affection which it is impossible not to feel towards an intel- 
lectual benefactor of the race. Every means should be taken to preserve 
Stratford-upon-Avon as an old Elizabethan town, as nearly as possible 
in accordance with the modes of life in Shakspere*s days. 

If the subscription now going forward should realise enough to found 
a coUc^ for aged and infirm poets, giving the preference to Dramatic, 
it womd be a worthy memento, and form a nucleus that might draw 
the genius of present and succeeding times round the tomo of the 
great one. 

There are many curious and interesting details in this little volume, 
and we sincerely recommend it to all proceeding to or desiring an 
account of the place and its memorials. 



DOUGLAS JERROLD'S 

SHILLING MAGAZINE 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER.* 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ORION." 
CHAPTER XVIII. 

OAT-CAKES. — A POET's LETTERS OF BUSINESS. — ABSTRACT INTELLECT AND THE 
ACTUAL WORLD. — THE BUST OF SCHILLER. — ^THE^FISHERMAN. — ARCHER^ 
AND THE MISS LLOTDS. 

The sharp blow of an open hand soanded with a loud smack 
against the passage-wall of the house where Archer lodged. It 
was the hand of Mrs. Dance, the mistress of the house, who, 
intending to administer chastisement to the servant girl's shoulders, 
had fallen short of her severe intentions and smacked the lath 
and plaster instead. Her voice, however, followed the flight of 
the culprit as she ran down stairs : so that Archer was obliged to 
lay down Goethe's Kunst und Alterthum, and listen to it, against 
his will. 

** To think of it!" cried Mrs. Dance; "to think of such 
neglect ! We shall have no oat-cakes made this day ! What 
will the world come to ! Here have I been rubbing and cleaning 
up the griddle, with scouring-paper and an old glove, after it had 
got rusty through your shameful forgetsomeness, thinking all the 
time that you were gone to old Bigses wife to know why old Bigs 
hadn't sent the oatmeal I ordered a week ago from Gosport ; and 
here I find you, up in your bed-room, reading a book ! Neglect 
your work for this, will you ! / 'II teach you to sit improving 
your mind, you hussey, I will ! You 've been taking a leaf out of the 

T _»-_i__^ — — — 

* Continued from page 201, Vol. VI. 
NO. XXXIV. — VOL. VI. U 



290 THE DREAMEB AND THE WORKER. 

book of the lodger, I suppose ! You Ve seen him a-sitting half 
his life away over books, till you 've caught a little of the same 
craze. But if some people read less, and worked more, other 
people would not have to wait for their rent, and their servants 
woiddn't catch the complaint — idling and wasting o* good time ! 
That 's a bit of my mind — let them hear it as may." 

With these words, growing more and more indistinct as she 
descended the stairs, the landlady's voice ceased to fall upon the 
ear of Archer, yet seemed to continue with an endless echo in his 
mind. He was unable to continue reading, and he laid aside the 
book, sick and disgusted with the meannesses of life, and enraged 
with his own folly for allowing himself to be brought within the 
range of their vulgar pressure. Why had he suffered any false 
delicacy, or pride, or uncomfortable feeling between himself and 
Mr. Walton, originating in an absurdity, to prevent him from 
making known this temporary emergency to Mary ? How very 
unworthy of her open and handsome nature was such a conceal- 
menty and especially under their relative positions ! Yet the very 
smallness of the need, the meanness of the circumstance, had 
prevented him quite as much as any other feeling. 

Archer caught up a piw, and scrawled off a note to the friend 
who still delayed transmitting him the amount of his obligation, 
though he had repeatedly promised it, and then another note to 
the editor, who seemed resolved never to forward him his cheque. 
In all Archer's previous notes he had touched upon his need, and 
expressed his wishes with so circuitous and mystified a delicacy, 
ornate with evasive digressions, that what he had intended as 
stating his emergency, and pressing the point, had very likely 
escaped the observation of the parties addressed, or, at any rate, 
had giv^n them good grounds for treating with neglect a matter 
upon which he had chosen to be so indefinite and facetious. This 
never struck Archer : and his present notes were in an extreme 
vein, BO opposite — distinct, cold, peremptory, and laconic — that it 
would be very difficult to believe they could have been written by 
the same man. He sealed them with a smear of wax eacb, 
.caught up his hat, and hurried out to take them to the post-office. 

At the door of the house there was a low parapet-wall on one 
side, and upon it stood a huge flower-pot with a withered laurel- 
tree sticking up in the dry and sun-parched mould. Upon this mould 
three little bills were laid, addressed to Aycher. His eye caught the 
letters : he snatched up the bOls, and, being in an irritated state 



THE DBEAMEB AND THE WORKEB. 291 

cf miikd, retnmed into the house with indignation, to demand of 
the landlady upon what grounds of suspicion she had perpetrated 
these petty insults. 

He gave his hell-rope such a ing, that in a moment it ky m a 
eoil at his feet, together with a sheet of dry plaster from the 
eeiliog. There was a hell-rope on the other side of the ehinmey- 
place, hut it was ooly ornamental, being iixed to a nail. 

While Archer was hesitating as to whether he should ^eall for 
the servant in the passage, or stamp upon the floor till she came, 
a carrier's eart drew up to the door. It was nearly opposite to 
the wmdow, and Archer looked out mechanically. The carri^ 
and his man were busying l^emselTes in lifting up from the bottom 
of the eart a great white package in a sackcloth, which seemed 
heavy, and to require both strength and care. Archer stood dis- 
mayed. The bust of Schiller ! Here was the bust of Schiller 
aixiyed, and he had not a shilling to pay the carrier. 

The feding was altogether unbearable ; and, without stopping to 
reflect. Archer instantly left the room, and walked out into the 
garden at the back of the house with a cold perspiration upon his 
forehead. He opened a side-door in the garden that led into a 
back-lane ; and here he made his exit, in a state of humiliation 
and rage equally painful and ridiculous, considering the paltriness 
of the external cause. As he closed the door, a great smash 
was heard in the street, and the ratiHng of fragments upon the 
pavement. The bust of Schiller! — tumbled out of the men's 
mans !•>— dashed to pieces ! — all this because he eould not run out 
to superintend its careful carriage into the house — all this for the 
base want of a few shillings. Archer clenched his teeth, while 
the tears gushed into his eyes, as he hurried away to take a walk 
and recover himself on the sea-beach. 

His ima^nalion and feelings had created all this. It was not 
the poet's bust which had arrived, but a sack of oatmeal for the 
lan^dy; and, in its passage into the house, the men had run 
against the great flower-pot with the dead laurel in it, whidi was 
emashed by ike blow, and the fragments had clattered down on all 
sides upon l^e pavement. 

Archer, once clear of the lane, hurried across towards the beach, 
to cool himself in the sea-breeze, and to recover from the shock his 
feelings had just received. He paused by the side of an old bdat 
that was lying upon its side in the ehbgles. Under tke other side 

u2 



292 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

of the boat, and out of Archer's sight, sat an old fishermaD 
mending a net. 

" * What a piece of work is man !' " exclaimed Archer, quoting' 
Hamlet, almost without being conscious of it — *' what a strange 
piece of work we are ! . We speculate upon Art, till its roots and 
branches entwine themselves with those of Nature, and its yeins- 
and arteries are scarcely separable from the parent source — yet 
separable they must be, or Art is lost, and resolves itself into Nature, 
which is distinct ; — ^we wander back into antiquity, till we seem 
to resign our present life in the generation that surrounds us, and 
take upon ourselves the feelings and thoughts of a dead generation, 
with all its objects and interests — ^yet, in the very midst of this 
noble oblivion of personal identity, and of self in all its mean 
relations — ^at this very moment, perhaps, comes some base, paltry, 
commonplace worldly need, urged upon us by the most insignificant 
of creatures and causes ; — and art and antiquity vanish in a whirl- 
wind of dust, that chokes, and blinds, and maddens us. What 
an ocean to be troubled with the moods of its small frj — ^what a 
piece of work is here !" 

The old fisherman rose with an angry face from imdemeath the 
other side of the boat. 

" Piece of work ! " said he, indignantly, " I should like to see 
how you would look if you had done half the work this here boat 
has ! Men don't catch fish by heaving sighs and groans, and 
turning up the whites o* their eyes. Small fry, d'ye call us ? — do 
you think the ocean is only meant for whales ? You come down 
to the sea-side with your head full of nonsense and pride, and may- 
hap more nice than wise ; you spin a yarn about the natur of antick- 
erty and the art o' generation, and sich like palaver of Tom Cox's 
Traverse, and you think, because you 've money in your pocket, 
that you 're to crack on with to'-gallan* sails, royals, and stun- 
sails, and run down poor fishermen, as if them and their boats were 
the most insignificant of creaturs. I wouldn't give a dried sprat 
for a dozen of you ! " 

** My good friend," exclaimed the astonished Archer, much 
annoyed at the absurdity of the misunderstanding, but also rather 
amused, ** I was not alluding to you, or your boat, or anything 
belonging to your calling. I was only — ' * 

** Why, didn't I hear you call us small fry, that choked and 
maddened you to look at ? and didn't you flap your starboard fin 
upon the gunnel o* this here boat, and call her a rotten piece o' 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 293 

vork ? Ha'nt a man got ears on his head because lie has holes in 
his coat ? " 

"My good fellow/* said Archer, with a sigh of fatigue at the 
perverse folly of the mistake, '* I assure you I am one of the last 
men to insult the implements of your calling, or taunt you with 
your poverty." . 

" Oh, I dare say not. You '11 tell me presently you were just 
gomg to offer me half-a-crown." 

" I certainly was not exactly " ^ . 

** No, nor three-and-sixpence neither ; hut I want none of your 
money. I don't care for it — ^nor your pride, nor your fine speeches 
— ^but I do wish you had paid my grand-daughter for tibe last 
fortnight's water-cresses she has regularly left at your door. / 
know you. " 

Archer stood confounded ; the triviality of the climax, with its 
overwhelming circumstantiality and importance in the. speakers 
mind, voice, air, and face, were of a kind that he knew not how 
to endure or deal with, and in the emotion of the moment, he 
stamped upon the shingles, and turning upon his heel walked 
away. 

The tide was coming in, and Archer walked close down to the 
water's edge, feeling as if he could willingly walk onwards, and 
never return again to the world's ** inhospitable shore." 

Oppressed with numberless thoughts and memories, and consi- 
derations of how he had passed his life — what studies and what 
efforts to build up and store his mind, and with how little worldly 
profit — Archer wandered along the water's edge for some time, 
engrossed by all within, and observing nothing without, till 
at length the white dresses of some ladies at a distance, attracted 
his attention. . They were advancing : he thought he would turn 
iwide and avoid them, when at this moment a breeze from the sea 
displayed the outline of one of the ladies, who appea]:^d the younger 
of the two, in a way that gave her so beautiful an effect between 
the angel and the sea-nymph, that Archer's eyes became fixed 
upon the fair vision, and he moved towards them by some.uncon- 
ficious fascination. 

Presently, some little familiar action, or graceful movement of 
the younger of the ladies, caused Archer immediately to recognise 
ihem. " Ellen Lloyd, and her sister ! " said he, aloud : "they 
4seem to have walked out of the sea to meet me." 

Archer quickened his pace. " How veiy glad I am to meet 



294 TBB BBEAMER AND THE W0BKE31. 

jou^'* cried ke ; ''I liaye been atrolling along the beacb: this hmsr, 
in the most wretched spirits." 

*' In search of a rhyme i '* inquired Ellen Lloyd, with one of 
her sweet smiles, not unmixed with archness, and not altogether 
wanting in a tone of sympathy with his sad voice — ^* in search 
of a rhyme to the word poet ? ** 

*' Ne, nor to the word scissors, then white-robed Syren, sent by 
one of the Fate-sisters to cut asunder the thread of my painful 
roTerie. I was searching for no rhyme, and last of all ^ould I 
search for one to the luckless word you mention, more especially 
as the neajrefit rhyme to poet afforded by the Bnglish language is ' 
only a consonant, or semi-rhyme, — cruet/* 

<^What a sour association,'' said Miss Lloyd, ''and how rery 
inappropriate." 

" We must think of an oti-cruet," interposed Ellen — ^oil from 
the Mount of CHiyes^ What could put the ugly word scissors into 
your thoughts ? and in retort to my naughty inquiry about the 
ward 'poet? ' " 

" Oh, several wandering assoetations. First, there is im» word 
which rhymes with ' scissors, * any more than with * poet ; ' and 
the two ideas suggested one of the Fates who should cut the unfor- 
tunate thread of a life which was bom to live alone — ^rhymeless; 
And at the same moment, also, the salt breeze took thy gMea 
loeks, Ellen, imd some lines from Browning's 'Pippa Passes,^ 
came into my mind : — 

^1 happened to hfiar of a young Greek girl, 
Witn Alciphron hair, like sea^moss — ' 

And tiie natural suggestion that grew out of thds, was: to cut off 
<me of these flying locks — not because it was at all like Alci* 
phron's searmoss, but because as the wind and sun played with it,, 
a seemed so beautiful a companion to the image conveyed m 
thosei lines. Behdd the esoteric history of the ugly word 
' scissors, ' in the mind of thy Mend. ' ' 

** I aan more than reconciled to the word," said Ellen, looking^ 
down upon the pebbles of the beach, as they slowly paced along*-* 
" but do not traee it any further. Let us talk of somelAing elae.**^ 

*' When do yon go to Dublin ? " inquired Miss Lloyd. 

*^ I scarcely know," said Archer, with a vexed air, '' I am 
waiting for some letters, which are moat unaceoontably delayedw"* 
And when they arrire," continued Miss Lloyd, *'you will 



44 



THE DBEAMER AND THE W<mKBB* 2d5 

scarcely find time to come and wbh ua good bye ; you will be so 
anxious to end the period of your solitary walks on the beach. 
Have yoa heard from Mary this morning ? What does she say to 
all this separation ? " 

" Not much," said Archer ; ** she knows I cannot yery well — 
that some tiresome people do not write to me, although — in short, 
ncTer mind." And Archer quickened his pace. 

'* Do you consider," inquired Ellen, ** that Ossian's poems were 
originaUy written in Irdand, or in Scotland ? " 

" That cannot easily be decided," replied Archer ; " but while 
the Gaelic language was c(»nmon to both, and the scenery might 
be found in both, the tone of feeling and cast of thought are, I 
think, most characteristic of the ancient Irish." 

'' I am so fond of some of Ossian's poems,*' said Ellen. 

" And I too," said Areher. '^ Their sorrow is so grand ; their 
intense interest in the dead and gone — the almost forgotten — ^is 
so touching, from its magnanimous oblivion of self, and all of 
to-day." 

"When a hero weeps," said Ellen, "how well it seems to 
harmonize with the rocky waterfalls around ; when he draw& his 
sword, or hurls his spear, you nerer think of blood, but of some 
great meteor in the air. The deaths in battle are always glori- 
fied and refined : they nerer shock you with disgusting detfula of 
realities. It is like a battle in the clouds. A hero talks of his 
shidd as if it were a planet. But when he alludes to the glories 
of the past, what melancholy phantoms of kings and chiefs float 
through the mist ; what pictures of lofty rmns and the desolation 
of regal abodes rise up in yapour before us — and while ' the fox 
looks out of the window, and the rank grass waves on the waU^' 
we hear dim echoes of the harps of the bards, floating among the 
distant lulls, and dying away in the lonely eaims and meuBda of 
buried heroes." 

"EUen has Ilred among mountains^ to good purpose/' said 
Archer, turning to Miss IJoyd ; " she has improved the hapji^ 
opportunity. I wiah I could do the same." 

" Wasted my time, some people would call it," observed Eilen. 

" And I repeat," said Archer — "thanking you far the repfeirf, 
if yotE meant it — that I wish I could do the same." 

"I think it is the fashion in modem literature," said EUeii, 
"to speak meanly of Ossian, is it not ; — to call it a 'stilted 
style r" 



296 THE DSEAMER AND THE WORKEa. 

*' Yes," said Archer, '* by those whose imaginations are short- 
boned — if I may use such a figure. A stunted mind resents thelofbj; 
it thinks every tall figure must be spindle-shanked, forgetting that 
pillars, and obelisks, and noble columns, if they have their heads 
in the clouds, must have their shafts deep down in the earth. Not 
but we must admit that Ossian is often too yerbose— too much 
alike — ^wants abbroTiation ; but we might say just the same 
(though to a less extent) of Horner^ and Dante, Chaucer, and 
Milton/' 

By this time they had reached the platform of the Parade, 
and Archer wished the ladies good day. 

With a light step and wonderfully improved spirits, he bent 
his way homeward. As he approached the house, his former 
depression began to weigh him down. He thought of the mean 
and provoking circumstances that he had endured, and that still 
surrounded him — of the destruction of the cast from Thorwaldsen's 
bust of Schiller — of the taunts of the old fisherman — and of the 
equally ludicrous and grave fact upon which those taunts were 
founded. And now he was returning to the same house, in all 
probability to endure similar annoyances. 

But there is something so genial and invigorating in the advent 
of a flow of good spirits, particularly if accompanied by ennobling 
thoughts and high abstract interests — and enhanced as these must 
always be by the sympathy of a young and lovely woman — that 
Archer presently shook off his cloud, and resuming his brisk step, 
knocked at the door of his house, smiled at the girl who opened it, 
and entering his apartment, beheld upon the table the bust of 
SchiUer ! There is often a sort of fortunate enchantment atten- 
dant upon a good state of animal and mental spirits. Things 
happen which could not have happened to any one who was in a 
depressed state. By the side of the bust, two letters were laid 
upon the table — one containing a cheque upon a Portsmouth 
banker from the editor of the quarterly journal, and an apology 
for the delay ; the other a post-office order from his literary 
friend, with many excuses for his ungrateful conduct. 

" Tout le monde est bon I '* exclaimed Archer ; " Moliere is 
right, and I regret the angry notes I last dispatched to these two 
men ; they are really very good fellows, and the editor is far more 
competent to the management of that review than I have thought 
of late." 

Nevertheless, Archer determined to change his lodgings. Even 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 297 

tbe girl's explanation about the meal-bag, and the flower-pot 
which he had mistaken for the fractared bust of Schiller^ though 
it excessively amused him, did not shake his resolution. He paid 
all his bills with a hurried hand, and left the house the same 
evening. Some tolerably good apartments being vacant at a house 
within a few steps of ifr. Walton's cottage, he went there. He 
rejoiced to escape from the sound of his late landlady's voice, tmd 
wished he might never see her skate-face again. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



SMACK-BUILDING IN lAELAND. — MR. SHORT, IN AN INGENIOUS MANNER, MAKES 
[A FORMAL PROPOSAL TO MARY. — RESULTS OF HIS ABfATORT OVERTURE. 

" Praised be St. Patrick ! " cried Mr. Short, hurrying 
towards Mr. Walton, with an open letter in his hand. ** Praised 
be St. Patrick, wo 've got plenty of salt." 

** Ha ! " said Mr. Walton, who fully supposed that the money 
had been remitted for a number of shares in the Company, from 
the Portsmouth admirers of Titus Andronicus ; "I rejoice to hear 
it. I suppose you can find an immediate use for it." 

"Softly, softly, my friend," said Mr. Short, **we must first 
catch the fish." 

" Why haven't we done that already ? — all these new shares 
are the fish we caught in the Portsmouth theatre, an't they ? " 

** Psha ! " exclaimed Mr. Short, " I don't mean money, I mean 
salt — brine — salt to pickle and cure the surplus fish, for which we 
cannot find an immediate market. It is important that a fishing 
station should not only be in the vicinity of abundance of fish, 
but that we should be able readily to procure, within a convenient 
distance, timber for building and repairing, hemp for rigging and 
tackle, and salt " (here he gave Mr. Walton a patronising slap 
on the shoulder), '* for curing and preserving the superfiuities of 
our piscatory riches." 

** I see," said Mr. Walton. 

" And I have just received intelligence," pursued Mr. Short, 
'*from the point of coast I had fixed upon in Waterford, that 
all these things are suiEciently abundant. Now, you observe, 
our tactics are quite clear before us. While these smacks are 



298 THE BBEAMEB AND THB ^OSKEB. 

building, we must exert ourselyes by all possible means to stir up 
tbe rich noblemen and landlords cdT the county, and particnlarij 
the Marquis of Waterford, to form a company th^nselyeB, or giye 
handsome subscriptions for the purpose of improTing some of the 
natural bays and harbours of the coast, and of building a small 
per somewhere in the most eUgible situation." 

'' Close to our fishing-station,'* interposed Mr. Walton. 

" Of course," said Mr. Short. 

While our great speculators were thus discoursing, a letter 
arrived from Mr. Bainton — ^who had already fitted up boat-sheds, 
and a building-yard, and was now very busy in the construction of 
a dock — with a piece of intelligence that caused them some tem- 
porary vexation. He represented that there was a large and 
unemployed population within a few miles on each side of him, and 
that consequently labour was extremely cheap, but the difficulty 
was to obtain skilled labour ; in fact, he had no means of obtain- 
ing a sufficient number of boat-builders to carry an. the work with 
the necessary rapidity. Harding, and the three ahipwri|^its he 
had brought from his own yard, had worked sixteen hours a day 
during the last week, each one having under his directions such 
boat-build^s and assistants as the neighbourhood affoided ; but he 
plainly saw that all the difficulties to be overcome had not bee& 
estimated, and that more time would be needed. To obviate this, 
Mr. Bainton proposed, that Harding should return to Dublin, and 
make, with their assistance, immediate arrangements for going te 
Scotland, to purchase three Scotch smacks, so that if good fortune 
attended the formation of the Anglo-Celtic Fishing Company, th^ 
might, at least, not be retarded in their operations, for want of 
boats to begin with. 

After some conference, it was decided that the recommendation 
of Mr. Bainton should be adopted, and they wrote to him by the 
next post, requesting that Harding might return to Dublin as soob 
as he could be spared, and they would speedily furnish him with 
funds and instructions to proceed to the coast c^ Scotland^ sa^ 
purchase two or three fishing-smacks. 

Meantime, the ingenious gentleman and fine tactician in tbe 
game of love, Mr. Short, had meditated upon the best means of 
making his advances to Mary, and had finally resolved that as she 
had previously shown a di^osition to retire from his former 
moves of insinuating atte&tions^ he would this time take hffir quite 
by surprise, and endeavour, to carry the fair fc^ress by a bold 



THE BBEAHES A5D THE WORKER. 299 

etmp d^edat. It must, however, be done in an eqnallj ii0TdL and 
striking manner. 

In furtherance of this design, Mr. Short engaged the serviees of 
a Dublin artist, whom ho directed to make a finished drawing, in 
lines, as if for wood-engraving, and with the follomng subject : — 
A sea-shore in front of a small bay, romantically situated. In 
the foreground a fishing-smack, with sailors in the act of launch- 
ing her down a shelving beach. The middle of the drawing was 
to represent a number of fishing-boats in difPereitt stages of eon- 
struction, with a building-yard close behind on one side, and two 
tall round pillars on the other, supporting a long board with carved 
edges, upon which was to be inscribed *^' The Royal Assomated 
Anglo-Celtic Companies" — thereby comprising boat-bmlding, 
fisheries, and pier and harbour companies, all und^ one head, as he 
trusted they would eventually be concentrated, and himself be 
placed as chief secretary or acting director to the whole. In the 
baekground he requested the artist to make a sketch of himself 
(Mr. Short) in the dress of a sailor, kneeling to a lady, with one 
hand pointing to the board inscribed with the title of the compa- 
nies, and the other pmting to the distant landscape and a small 
church and steeple. Close by the lady, an old gentleman, of rather 
portly appearance, was to stand clasping his hands with evident 
tokens of pleasure at the proposal of the gallant sailor. 

All this being finished, after numerous alterations and correc- 
tions in the figure of the kneeliug sailor, which, in truth, did 
eventually present a ridiculous resemblance to Mr. Short, the 
drawing was taken to a mother-of-pearl engraver, to reduce to the 
size of the largest shell he could procure-. The design was forth- 
with engraved upon a piece of mother-of-pearl, about four inches 
long, by three and a quarter high. It looked very well, except that 
the kneeling sailor had a still more a£^ted air than the one in the 
original drawing, which the artist had in vain endeavoured to 
alter ; and that the lower part of the left leg on the ground was 
out of proportion, being much too long — a fauSb that had happened 
in the endeavour to hide or balance a disproportion which ha^ been 
observed in the other, or right leg, of the drawing. It could not be 
helped now. The artist therefore engraved some grass, in which 
the foot and ankle of the sailor were in a great measure hidden. 

The engraving was handsomely set in chased silver, and fixed 
tipon the top of a rosewood dressing-case, containing all sorts of 
ladies' implements, and sundry implements beside, such as ladies 



300 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

seldom use — ^tweezers, nail-scissors, button-hooks, a silver marrow- 
spoon, pen-knives, an apple-scoop, a nail-file, curling-irons, a 
tortoise-shell shoeing horn, <fec. 

Next Wednesday, the elated Mr. Short was to give a dinner 
party to Mr. Walton, in honour of Mary's birth-day. On this 
day he determined to present his irresistible dressing-case, and 
make his "great demonstration.*' It was ready in time, by 
dint of incessant calls at the shop, and he carefully tied it up 
in a plum-coloured velvet cover, the button of which had beeu 
sewn on the wrong side. 

They sat down to dinner — ^some twelve or fourteen, in all. 

Mr. Short was in excessive spirits, continually called upon Mr. 
Walton to takewine with him, was most assiduous in his atten- 
tions to every body, and laughed and talked incessantly. Amidst 
this, every now and then, his countenance changed, and he fell 
into silence, and had a troubled air ; then he rallied again, and 
was more vivacious than before. He drank too much wine ; but 
he became aware of it, and asked for soda water. After this he 
took great care of himself, and fell into frequent meditation. 
What he contemplated required considerable nerve. He intended 
to make Mary an " offer," under cover of a fine birth-day speech, 
in which he would present her with the dressing-case, and piippose 
her health — the ** offer " was not to be stated in direct woAis, but 
implied in a way that could not be mistaken. He had planned to 
do this in presence of all the guests, in order the more completely 
to take Mary by surprise, and to cause the affair to be talked 
about, all which he thought would contribute to his success. 

The cloth was removed ; the moment arrived. Mr. Short 
filled his glass a bumper, and was about to rise, but was pre- 
vented by the opening of the door. A servant came in to say 
that a seafaring man wanted to speak with Mr. Short and 
Mr. Walton. 

'* We can't — it 's impossible — hang him ! " cried Mr, Short, 
*' say we 're at table — come to-morrow." 

" Tell him to wait in the back parlour," said Mr. Walton — 
" (beg pardon. Short — it may be of consequence) — I '11 come down 
to him presently.'* 

Mr. Short had been put out, and finished his bumper inadvert- 
ently from irritation. He filled it again, and looking towards 
Mr. Walton with a most important air, was about to rise, when 
Mr. Walton suddenly begged leave to give a toast, and without 



THE DBEAMER AND THE WORKER. 301 

waiting for permission lie ran into a panegyric of bis munificent 
host, Mr. Short, and concluded by proposing his health. It was 
drank. Mr. Short was again put out ; still, the fact of Mary's 
father haying proposed bis health, seemed all to play into his 
hands ; he therefore swallowed a bumper in returning thanks, and 
then filled another, saying, that he was now about to propose 
what he wished to be regarded as the toast of the evening, which 
it was most important should be drank before the ladies retired. 
While the glasses were being filled, he directed that the dressing- 
case should be placed upon the table before him, with the cover 
unfastened, ready to be thrown off at a moment. 

"Mr. Walton," said Mr. Short, slowly rising upon his toes, 
and then rocking backward upon his heels, yet keeping his right 
hand extended over the table, with his brimming wine-glass shining 
between the two candles — ** Mr. Walton, I rise to propose a most 
important and respected health — permit me to say, a most admired 
and feeling toast— which I am sure every gentleman and lady who 
have honoured my house this day with their presence, will respond 
to with the highest pleasure. The number of years we have 
known each other, Mr. Walton — ^the cordiality and regard which 
has always existed between us — and now the extensive business, 
interests, and speculations which unite us — render the present one 
of the^ost eventful and exciting moments of our lives, and justify 
me, I venture to think, in proposing the health of one, very dear 
to you, and towards whom I have always entertained the liveliest 
sentiments. A-hem ! The garden of life is pleasant and full of 
fruit — if man did but only know how to cultivate, and enjoy it 
with propriety — that is, in season. Let us be among those who 
are wise. A-hem ! On this delightful advent of the five-and- 
twentieth year of your daughter, my honoured guest, I wish I had 
eloquent words adequately to express the eloquent thoughts of this 
inadequacy. But the anticipation, the kind wishes, the admiring 
and most honourable intentions — that is to say, the most unfailing 
respects and consideration for her welfare and future happiness, 
and my regard and conjunction in afixiirs with you, Sir, and my 
humble ambition in other respects, must find words for me upon 
the present occasion. Hem ! — a-hem ! * Trifles,' as the great 
moralist Seneca says, ' trifles show the heart,' and even in such a 
thing as a poor dressing-case, there may be found a moral pur- 
pose, which may assist in giving it a place in the shadow of the 
memory of the future, and cast a gleam of sunshine upon to-day, 



302 THE DREAMER AND TIi£ WOEKBB. 

wHeB the past eball be no mere." (Mr. Short had gradually 
drawn the coyer from the top of the dresBing-case, and Marj 
caught sight of the kneeling sailor, and the distant church), ^' Se 
let us all unite our hands," proceeded Mr. Short, '' let us all join 
our prayers in commemorating the day when our fair fnend 
reached this most interesting age of woman, when the iuteUeci 
and the beauty are at their height — a day when all circumstances 
conjoin to render us happy — oxtd when only one more circumstance, 
and one more ceremony, are wanting to render the humble indi- 
Tidual now before you, the happiest taMn on earth. Miss Mary 
Walton, I propose — " 

Mary instantly rose from her seat with a face of sciu^let. There 
were l^ree other ladies at the table, who also rose. 

^* I propose," stammered Mr. Short, in explanation — " I propose 
—the health— the health of Miss Mary " 

But the word '' propose " was a dangerous one to insist upon at 
such a moment — ^the alarm to dcUcacy had been given, and away 
swept the ladies in confusion out of the room, one of them mur- 
muring as she went, '' Beally, Mr. Short — really, my dear 
Mr. Short ! " 

Mr. Walton sat confounded ! — ^he had not seen the kneeling 
sailor, nor observed the ''eyes " Mr. Short made at his daughter 
in giving utterance to the last words — he didn't understand it ! 
He was listening to what seemed the handsomest possible speech to 
introduce the health of Mary on her birth-day ! What could there 
be in this — ^where was the impropriety — what the devil did it all 
mean ! He jumped up and ran out into the passage after the la.die6. 

"Mary, my dear!" cried Mr. Walton, seizing hold of Mary's 
lace scarf — '* Short means no harm — he only proposes *' 

"Pray, papa, let me go !" exclaimed Mary, disengaging her- 
4self, and leaving her scarf in Mr. Walton's hands. 

Mr. Short had followed Mr. Walton into the passage. The 
excitement of too much wine — of the mischief he had done — ^the 
£ight of the ladies — ^the sight of Mary's handsome shoulders sud- 
denly uncovered — and a wild desire to r^[»air his ernxr, all acting 
at once upon him, in an evil moment he obeyed his impulse and 
hastily followed Mary's steps. Perceiving him coming after her, 
Mary suddenly turned off into a back parlour, and closed the door. 
Unable to restrain himself, in bounced Mr. Short aft^ her, and 
was abruptly stopped by the arm of a man which was suddenly 
extended in front of his chest. It was Harding. 



THE DREAMER AND THE WOBEEB. 303 

*' What are you ? — ^what do you ? Ah ! you shipwright fellow, 
do yoa dare I — Harding, I say, you scoundrel — ^what, in my own 

uOUSC • 

In Tain did Mr. Short rush and struggle to pass the barrier arm. 
It was Hke nrnning at the bough of a tree. 

"What brings you here?" screamed Mr. Short. "Do you 
mean to persist in standing in my way, in this manner, when- I 
wish to speak to a lady — ^standing in my way — I wiU pass — I 
will — -jstanding in my way in my own house — ^house — house !" 

And Mr. Short plung^ and tore with all his might, and struck 
seyeral wild blows at Harding's head ; but he could not get by the 
arm and hand. , 

** Leave my house, this instant! — Police! police!^' shouted 
Mr. Sh(fft.— " Oh, police ! '* 

By this time Mr. Walton and all the yisitors came thronging 
into the room. 

** Harding," said Mary, " I beg of you to leave the house." 

Harding bowed, and immediately retired. Mr. Short fainted in 
Mr. Walton's arms, and was carried up to bed by two of the 
domestics : all the visitors slowly following up the stairs in a sort 
of absurd train of condolence and astonishment, as far as the first 
landing-place of the second floor. 



CHAPTER XX. 



^TifiTTEP. LOOKS HIS FBOSPBCIS ZN THE FACE. — HE VISITS A MODERN STOIC — 

STMOFSIS OF A PHILOSOPHICAL NOVEL. 

Being settled in his new lodgings, one window of which com- 
manded a good view of the sea, Archer placed himself there to 
watch the changes of form and colour in the clouds as the sun 
went down. How the months had flown I or rather, how time 
had crept on, since he had been in Portsmouth ! What had he 
•been doing for the last six months ? Nothing that he could show. 
Thinking — reading — ^writing ; all of which his uncle, and the 
world, would reckon up as amounting to nothing. He could not 
lay the result upon a wooden platter, and say "Look here!" 
This is what is expected of a man — this is business — this is called 
" something.'* Mean enough — ^and " of the earth, earthy.** But, 



304 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

pn the other hand, did not his circumstances need some exertions 
of a different kind from those he was in the hahit of making — 
practical work instead of mental work ? It seemed so, indeed ; 
and a sorry fact it was, as the paltry insults and annoyances he 
had experienced in his last lodgings fully testified. They had 
awakened him to a sense of his real position, and he saw that he 
must look this fairly in the face, hoth for the present and for the 
future, as far as he could discern. He did not hlame himself yery 
severely for his past indifference to his worldly concerns. - He 
found many good excuses for it ; and he called to mind a passage 
in '* Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship," which seemed exactly .to 
apply to himself. ** He knew not that it was the manner of all 
persons, who attach importance to their inward cultiyation, alto- 
gether to neglect their outward circumstances. This had heen 
Wilhelm*s case : he now for the first time seemed to notice that, 
to work effectively, he stood in need of outward means." Archer 
now saw this too ; and he hegan to look into the real state of his 
affairs. 

His means of life, independent of literature, were of tho smallest 
— scarcely a hundred a year ; and with the addition of literature, 
how stood his finances ? He discovered that in the last six 
months he had written two articles for a quarterly journal, one . of 
which had produced him twenty guineas, and the other had heen 
** held over " for the ensuing number. He thought he would never 
safely calculate upon the insertion of more than three articles in 
the course of the year, in this journal^ nor could these always 
produce an equal amount. , This would not do to rest upon. He 
saw that he must try and find some other quarterly to which his 
contributions would be acceptable. To the monthly magazines he 
had applied some years ago, forwarding to them sundry disquisi- 
tions on works of art and philosophy, as well as essays, but with 
so little benefit to himself that he did not feel disposed to make 
any moves at present in the direction of those fixed or changeful 
luminaries. 

With a wife, too ! There was a fresh consideration for him. 
True, he had considered it before, though not very deeply Tnor 
could he do so with any certainty, because the feelings and inten- 
tions of his uncle, as well as of Mr. Walton, had not then been 
apparent, and he had naturally hoped for the best. Now, how- 
ever, he could not conceal from himself that both of them were 
quite avei'so to his marriage with Mary, and would do. nothing to 



THE DBEAUER AND THE WOREEB. 305 

assist them either before or after. Perhaps one or both might do 
something of a decent kind after ^ but it would not be safe to trust 
to that. He must trust to his own exertions. Mary knew all 
this. Nothing was concealed from her, and she was ready to 
ehare his lot wheneyer he considered it at all prudent to ''do the 
irrevocable deed." Only that very day he had received a letter 
from her, more tender than usual, repeating the same, and 
declaring how glad she should be to leave the odious, handsome 
house of Mr. Short, and return to Portsmouth. If Archer's love 
)iad for a long time been cooling towards Mary, it seemed all at 
once to revive with this letter. He determined that he would 
ftet to work, and place his worldly affairs in a far better and more 
fixed position. 

But in what way was tliis practical improvement of mundane 
ftffairs to be attained ? By means of literature. He knew of no 
Other means that would suit him, or that he should suit. And 
how these means were to be improved he did not very clearly see 
«*-in fact, he did not see at all, except through the medium of a 
work which he had long wished to write, and which he antici- 
pated would meet with great success. 

Was there nothing else ? Could he not do something besides 
literary labour ? How did other men of education support them- 
aelves — ^that is, when they were without friends, or rich con- 
nexions, or any definite profession ? How, for instance, did Karl 
Kohl live? Here was a foreigner, who could' scarcely speak 
English intelligibly, who came over without any apparent means of 
life beyond the terms of a precarious engagement. This engage- 
ment had been broken up — Mr. Kohl had been thrown upon his 
own resources — and he had declined further assistance, saying he 
could do very well ! Could he indeed — luid he done well — and 
how ? By the way, where toos Karl Kohl ? Archer had not 
eeen him for several weeks, and then only by accident in the 
streets. He reproached himself for this neglect. Who could 
tell what privations a man of elaborate education and attainments 
might have suffered ! 

It was nearly dark by the time Archer's reverie had concluded. 
Nevertheless, he started off to the lodgings Mr. Kohl had 
occupied during the period of his engagement as architect to the 
Associated-Home Building Company. 

The people of the house knew nothing about Mr. Kohl. They 
did not know where he was gone, as he had himself carried away 

KO. XXXIV. — ^VOL. VI. X 



306 THB DaEAUEB AND THE WOIIKE&. 

his little old brown leather trunk under his arm. He had paid 
his rent, all but two shillings for cleaning his boots, which he had 
disputed — they knew nothing about him. Archer turned slowly 
from the door. 

Walking thoughtfully down the street, however, his eye wa» 
attracted by the light from a tobacconist's window. He trained 
into the shop, and inquired if they had erer sold cigars or tobacco 
to a German gentleman who used to lire in the street ? They 
knew him pexfectly well. He had been one of their best 
customers, though he had not bought many cigars for the last six 
weeks. They gave Archer the address of Karl Kohl. It was in 
a little side street off the '' Common Hard'' — a locality in Ports-* 
mouth aptly so called, being a long and broad expanse of unevea 
stone payement, fronting the landing-places for all boats. 

It was low water. A dull yellow-ochre moon was rising above 
the immense smear of mud, and shedding its tinges upon the dirty 
stony landing ridges that extended into it fr(Mn the '' Common 
Hard." Little black boats, cast about in all directions, were 
lying like dead things upon their sides in the black beds of mud 
and sandy slush around them. With much difficulty, and after 
many inquiries, Archer found the little side street, and at last the 
house. He was told that Mr. Kohl was at home — ha could go \j}p 
to him — " third pair back." 

Archer commenced his ascent of the dark, narrow, broken,, 
winding stairs, grojHng with both hands, and wondering if he 
should find the right door — and what he might encounter if he 
opened a wrong door. His doubt and difficulty were, however,, 
quickly set at rest, when he heard a well-known base voice, 
naturally harsh, yet making manifest efforts at tender modifica- 
tions^ singing the following words : — 

Ich denke an ench, ihr himmlisch schonen Tage 

Der seligen Yergangenheit ! 
Komm Grdtterkind, O Phantasie, und tatgo 

Mein sehnend Hera zu seiner BliiihAi^elt.* 

Archer tapped at the thin-panelled door. 
*• Herein ! " cried Karl Kohl. 

'(^ On ye I think, ye days so bright and heavenly 
. . Of the joypns Past and Gone ! 

Ck>me, Angel-child, O Phantaeie, and cany 
My longing heart to its early bloommg^tone. 



THE DUEAMER AND THE WORKEB. 307 

Archer found the lateh of the door at last, and entered. The 
room was a little back attic, with a low slanting roof. It was f cdl 
of tobacco-smoke, which floated about in a strong draught pror 
duced by two broken windows. A rush-light in an old lantern, to 
preserve it from the wind, stood upon a small table, and displayed 
a low truck bedstead with a mattress, and yery stiff-looking dark 
brown curtains. On the outside of a patchwork counterpane sat 
Mr. Karl Kohl, in his night habiliments, viz,, a pair of stocking- 
web pantaloons of Prussian blue cotton ; a white shirt with pink 
sprigs, and a scarlet student-cap with a tassel of tarnished silyer. 
A red glow came fitfully across his face, from the end of a cigar 
which he was smoking. 

He received Archer without embarrassment, and appeared very 
glad to see him. It was only nine o'clock, but he usually went to 
bed, he said, at that hour, in order to forget the supper which he 
could not afbrd to have. 

They had a long conversation, during which Archer repeatedly 
expressed his anxiety to be of some service to Karl Kohl ; for, 
though he was unable to do anything himself worth consider- 
ing, he doubted not but he could sufficiently interest himself 
in several quarters. But Mr. Kohl assured him that he did 
not need it. He had made the same reply to Mr. Walton and 
the other gentlemen, on the break-up of the company, and had no 
reasons for regretting that he had declined their assistance. 
To be sure, he had notJbiing ; but he was a philosopher, and besides 
that, a man of industry who had some talents. 

'* But how in the world do you manage to live upon nothing ? " 
inquired Archer, with an earnest face. 

*' I mak a little ding a great way to go.'* 

" Yes," said Archer ; ** but by what means do you make the 
little thing ? " 

Karl Kohl informed him that he gave lessoi^ in Gennan and 
French ; on the pianorforte and violoncello ; in architectural and 
landscape drawing ; and that he was now trying to form a class 
for mathematics^ in the evening. He was ready to give lessons 
in dancing, if anybody would have them — why not ? He was not 
a maitre de danse, but he danced as well as gentlemen comnKmly 
did — and, in fact, he was ready to teach whatever he knew, to 
anybody who did not know it as welL 

" Why, you ought to be gettiog rich, with all these lessons ! " 
exclaimed Archer. 

X 2 



308 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

The philosopher, however, quickly enlightened Archer upon 
this point, hy informing him that his highest terms were sixpence 
a lesson ; and he was often ohiiged to teach for threepence and 
fourpence a lesson to those who were very poor, or who did not 
care much ahout learning at all, hut were attracted hy the 
cheapness. Even with this, he had many spare hours: hut he 
filled them up hy reading English aloud, for practice, hy smoking, 
and thinking of all the pleasantest events in his life, and hy 
husying himself with any little domestic arrangements his room 
might require. For instance, these hed-curtains, which, however 
ungraceful, were the warmest and the largest that could he pro- 
cured for the money, were made hy himself — they were merely > 
sheets of hrown paper pinned together. ' 

Archer remained two or three hours, very much to his own edi- 
fication. In taking leave, he requested Mr. Kohl to come and see 
him at any time his numerous avocations would allow him a spare 
hour. 

Archer returned to his lodgings with a new view of actual life, 
and the smallness of man's real needs. He felt greatly reconciled 
to his own worldly circumstances. He saw that in comparison 
with poor Kohl, he was actually a wealthy man. But he must 
he'stir himself. He could not give instructions in the variety of 
things he had just heard of ; and, considering the amount of 
remuneration, he saw no great reason to regret his inahility. He 
thought he could do something more advantageous — and perhaps 
something better in itself. 

The work which Archer wished to write, and which he had for 
a long time meditated upon, was a philosophical novel. The chief 
materials of this work would be developed through the medium of 
three characters. They had already lain in the soil of his mind like 
seeds that were ready to burst their shells and rise into the light. 
He trimmed his night-lamp, went to his desk, and began to make 
the first sketch of his design. In a few hours the following out- 
line was completed. 

THE THREE WISE MEN : 

▲ PHILOSOPHICAL NOVEL. 

" The fundamental principle of the work, is to display the 
operation of original character, as influenced by circumstances ; 
hut circumstances are to be understood in the widest and subtlest 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 309 

sense, and comprising internal rather than |extemal phenomena. 
Thus, two of the Wise Men are to be influenced, not by actual 
and tangible circumstances, but by what they conceive of cir- 
cumstances ; they are to display the effect which that idea has 
upon their minds. The third Wise Man is to deal only with real 
circumstances. 

" These three characters differ essentially from each other. 

'* The first Man is one who has a great and lofty imagination, 
and capacious understanding. In his mind, elementary truths have 
their natural growth. He wishes to originate the first rudiments 
of action in large masses of men, and make and mould events to 
correspond. He is ever brooding over his conception and con- 
struction of new things — vast Edifices for improved humanity ;— 
stupendous Temples of purified and elevated worship ; — ^magnificent 
Bridges (symbolically speaking) for the safe passage of the gene* 
rations of the earth over the gulfs of error and distress which 
periodically open in the forum of time ; — Colleges and Institutes 
endowed with power to compel mankind to learn, to be guided by, 
and to take the full benefit of the experience of the past. He seeks 
to originate and fix an Opinion in the public mind all over Europe, 
that knowledge is not power, because human progress halts a long 
way behind human knowledge ; that wisdom ought now to deve- 
lope itself in practical activity, at once, and without further preva- 
rications ; that the important things which are kept secret in the 
minds of all men of original genius, should be given out ; and 
that the world's rulers ought immediately to get out of the way, 
and let the world move on. 

"This Man has a prodigious abstract wilfulness — a boundless 
power of nobly wilful imagination and impulse to construction, and 
he constantly seeks to create feelings, opinions, events, and cir- 
cumstances, which, — of course, is attempting what is impossible to 
any man, and he ends in doing (practically) nothing." 

For this character Archer had in his mind some prototype ii;i 
the person of one Michael Salter, a man whom he had known in 
former years, and to whom his intellectual obligations were of the 
highest kind. 

** The second Wise Man was one whose knowledge of books 
and of the world were equally extensive. The history of all past 
time was ever fresh before his mind, while he was perfectly con^ 
versant'with the occm'rences of his own day. His favourite occu- 
pation was in making moral and political calculations of coming 



dlO TEE DREAHEB AND THE WORSER. 

changes. Hope was large in him — so large, that his activity- 
dwindled before it, and stood still to wonder. Deficient in impulse, 
he abounded in expectation, foresight, and caution. His vigilance 
was great in observation. He had glowing hopes of the advent of 
mighty things at some time or other, which only needed patiently 
waiting for. He was constantly waiting, therefore, for circum- 
stances. A man never could originate great events in the world, 
— great events always produced great men, viz., those who were 
waiting. He sees how wrong the first Wise Man is ; how his 
over-full life and powerful energies are wasting in futile efforts to 
create tliat which must always rise out of the ferment and roll of 
the world of things. To wait for great circumstances was the 
part of the truly wise man. This he was doing. Directly a great 
national event — a moral flood-tide — should arise, he was ready to 
step forward and place himself as the leader of the movement. 
Patient, like a giant in armour — armed at point, standing in the 
shade till the enchanted hosts came by, which he was to lead on to 
victory and Elysium — thus lived the second Wise Man, in ever- 
watchful anticipation, — until he became very old, and had a long 
white beard, and one day he happened to die. 

" The third Wise Man was one who never attempted to create 
circumstances ; neither did he sit waiting for the coming of some 
great event. His mind was led away by no fancies ; he was 
quite what is understood by a sensible man. He sees how, both 
the first and second Wise Men are losing their time. He thinks 
-he takes warning from them, to adopt a different course — but the 
fact is, he feels and thinks like himself, and not like them, and 
acts according to his nature. He attempts to originate nothing ; 
he is merely watchful for every circumstance of which he can 
practically avail himself, and upon this he never fails to seize. 
Directly the tide of circumstances comes near him, he throvrs 
himself in, and goes with it. By these means, he always floats 
upon the surface. 

** Here was the really Wise Man — ^here was the practical genius 
who mastered the e very-day world — the true son and heir of 
common sense — the deservedly favoured one of fortime. So, most 
readers of the Philosophical Novel must naturally expect. But no 
—this truly wise man," (and here Archer smiled to himself with 
a most delighted expression of face), ** this seizor upon every 
practical circumstance, was in himself so incompetent a fellow, that 
when he had got the circumstances in his hand, he could make 



THE DBEAMEB AND THE WOBKEB. '311 

little or nothing of them ; when he threw himself into, the tide 
he never advanced far, being cast aside on the shore by his own 
lightness^ and want of ballast. He always succeeded in so insig- 
nificant a way, that a cross accident, which usually happens to 
every man once in three years, threw him back among a heap of 
small results that were hardly worth putting together. In his 
old age, he contrived at last to wriggle himself into an alms-house, 
where he made mouse-traps for an additional quantity of tea and 
sugar, and a little coffee on Sundays. 

** There are many successful people among the subordinate 
eharacters of the work ; but they are all men who, besides having 
discretion and good sense, and being perseveringly industrious, 
mind their own business only, and are never troubled with great 
anxieties. 

'* Of the end of the first Wise Man, there can be no certain 
record. This is all that is known. Being about to make a long 
voyage on a great adventure, he chose to put to sea in a dark night 
of storm, on the principle that * in protracted events of importance, 
it was a wise thing to begin with the worst. All that happened 
afterwards must be a change for the better. In this way, a man 
•commanded his fate.' He was never heard of more." 

It was three o'clock in the morning when Archer finished this 
sketch of his projected novel. He extinguished his light, and 
wont to bed, greatly pleased with his own industry. By means 
of this work he doubted not that he should place his fortunes in a 
very superior position. He recollected Michael Salter with vivid 
feelings, and the many grand thoughts which he used to pour out 
in conversation. He determined to write a few lines to him the 
next morning, and transmit it to a friend in London, who might 
know where to find him. Of all men, he wished Salter to see the 
sketch of his novel ; indeed he knew nobody else whose opinion 
and advice about it he could much value. He wondered what 
Mary was about in Ireland, and whether she would soon return to 
Portsmouth. How were Mr. Walton and Mr. Short advancing 
with their Anglo-Celtic fishing enthusiasms ? He did not expect 
much good would come of it. He pictured to himself the figure 
of Harding building a boat by the sea-side — while Mr. Bainton, 
with timber-headed seriousness, and a face full of logarithms, was 
looking on. Then, he thought of the sea — ^its sound came into 
bis ears — ^he gave his whole attention to it — he was asleep. 



312 THE DBEAMER AKD THE WOSKEB. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

lOL SHORI*S APOLOOT. — THE DREIX OF THE WORKER. 

The morning after the disastrous dinner-party, Mr, Slifrt was 
obliged to keep his bed for a few hours. 

Mr. Walton listened very attentively to all Mary's reasons for 
their leaving the house as soon as possible, and taking apartments, 
if their stay in Dublin was likely to exceed the week. She had 
convinced him of the impropriety of Mr. Short's conduct towards 
her — ^indecorous, in any case, but most unbecoming towards one 
whom he knew to be already engaged. 

** Though the engagement may come to nothing,"* interposed 
Mr. Walton, ** still, very wrong — very bad taste. I am shocked 
and surprised at it. But Short was a little tipsy. No doubt he 
will most amply apologise. However, if you feel uncomfortable 
at remaining in his house, why we had better look out for lodgings 
at once.'* 

Mary showed her father that if they remained where they were, 
after what had happened, it would inevitably place her in an 
equivocal position, and would also lead to a quarrel, which might 
be avoided by their prompt departure. 

"I believe you are right, Mary," said her father. "If we 
stay it wUl keep up the irritation,, and cause some difference be- 
tween Short and myself, which would derange all our plans and 
operations. It may be difficult, as it is, to avoid some contention. 
I am told that directly he awoke this morning he swore about 
Harding, and said something respecting his instant dismissal from 
the business in which he had been engaged. Now, of course, we 
cannot desert Harding — can't give him up, on any account — and 
I am sure Bainton will not ; so we are two to one ; but there will 
be a few high words about it, I make no doubt, unless I can convince 
Short that he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of his behaviour, 
and even obliged to Harding for his intervention." 

Lodgings were easily found in the course of the morning* 
They moved there at once. As soon as Mary found herself alone, 
she sat down and wrote a long letter to Archer, chiefly impelled 
by the elasticity of spirits she felt at leaving Mr. Short's house, 
and also perhaps because Archer rose so prodigiously in her 
estimation by comparison, that she felt an increase of regard for 
him at the moment. ' She merely spoke of their change of 



THE BBEAMBB AKD THE WOBKEK. 313 

residence as being more suitable to tbe feelings of ber father and 
herself. She slightly touched upon Mr. Short, as a gentleman 
who was by no means agreeable to her — but she shrank from 
telling Archer of the scene that had occurred, and did not make 
the slightest allusion to the ''proposals" which had caused it. 
She just mentioned that. Harding had returned, and was not look- 
ing so well as usual : attributable, no doubt, to the very great 
exertions he had been making in Waterford. Their return to 
Portsmouth she thought might be delayed a week or two longer. 
She trusted, meantime, that the Miss Lloyds made themselves 
comfortable, and acted in all respects in the cottage as they would 
at home. Mary begged that Archer would give them as much of 
his society as he could, so that they might not feel dull in a strange 
place. 

Before dinner time there came a very long and handsome 
apology from poor Mr, Short, full of excuses, declarations, ex- 
planationd — regrets, defeated hopes, and a sick headache — hatred 
of himself, and highly-coloured pictures of the happiness he had 
fondly dared to dream of, followed by the downfall of castles, and 
prospects of a desolate life — at which Mr. Walton could not help 
shedding several tears. 

In the apologies of the ingenious gentleman there was one thing 
he laid great stress upon. He did not mention it as an excuse, but 
only in extenuation. It was, that he had merely pursued Miss 
Walton into the back parlour to explain to her — on his honour, 
with no other motive — to explain, and to do away with the 
impression conveyed by the word ** propose ;*' that he* wanted to 
assure her, it was her health he was about to propose, and not 
himself — his unfortunate self — at that moment. But finding 
himself suddenly confronted and impeded by a man — a rude brute- 
force working man — and in his own house, he was very naturally 
enraged and indignant ; and in the excitement of the moment, 
increased perhaps by the recent pleasures of the table, he had 
persevered in the terrific manner which had caused all the ladies so 
much alarm. Had no one opposed him, all would have been weU. 
Miss Walton would never have had the very slightest cause to 
complain of his pursuit. As for the ruffian, who had so unneces- 
sarily and insolently dared to interfere, Mr. Short trusted he should 
never again be made aware of his existence. 

There was some truth in what Mr. Short said. The inter- 
vention at such a moment, no doubt, produced* a state of exaspera- 



i I 



314 THE DBEAH£B AnD THE WORKER. 

tlon in bim, and a " scene " which would not otherwise hare 
occurred. But Harding was not to blame. He had come up from 
WiaAerford, by the directions of Mr. Bainton, to confer with Mr. 
Short and Mr. Walton on the subject of his mission to the coast of 
Scotland to purchase two or three fishing-smacks. He had just 
arrived^ and walked straight to Mr. Short's house. He was desired 
to wait, and Mr. Walton would come to him presently. He was 
shown into a small dusky back parlour ; and there he sat looking 
at the melancholy candle nearly an hour, while the sounds of merri- 
ment and feasting came in gusts, as the doors were opened and 
closed in the passages. Suddenly, he hears a general moyement 
— then a scramble — voices speaking together — hurried feet, and a 
rustle of ladies' garments — the door of his little dusky room is 
flung open, and in rushes Mary, with her hair and dress in disorder^ 
and closely followed by somebody whom she evidently wishes to 
escape, and to whose rude grasp he naturally attributed her 
uncovered arms and shoulders. To start up and throw himsdf 
between, was the impulse of a moment. 

What else could he do ? Few men but would have done the 
same in the cause of any woman : how much more so, if that 
woman had been the object of many thoughts and devout emotions. 
Such had been Harding's state of mind with regard to Mary, for 
some time — ^he did not know how long. He was not conscious of 
the time when he first began to feel a beating heart and a tremor 
at his knees in her presence. When he did become aware of it, 
he set it all down to his sense of her noble qualities and handsome 
person, and the respect and admiration induced by these ; but not 
that this was anything more to him, or that what he felt was 
anything dangerous to his peace — that it was anything, more- 
over, which ought not to be, and, for a thousand reasons, never 
could be. 

He at length, however, became aware of his temerity and great 
misfortune — ^the delicious ruin of his peace, and sweet martyrdom 
of all his hopes in this world. He was glad they had sent him to 
Waterford. He had never ventured to think what was in his 
heart — that is, not voluntarily. Such thoughts had never been 
daring enough to come to him in the daylight. But no man can 
command his dreams. There he had seen how it was with him. 

If to the *• visions of the night " Harding owed it, that his first 
perceptions of love had stolen from beneath the shades — ^in the 
same way did the hopes and fantasies come upon him after the 



BABY MAY. 315 

turbulent and dazzling scene in which he found himself on the 
eyening of his return to Dublin. Since this evening, his dreaming 
pillow betrayed all the secrets of his heart to his confused mind. 
In his dreams, he had been supremely blessed, and, careless of the 
precipice before his path — infinitely wise and irremediably foolish 
— bold beyond the consciousness of danger — ^timid and fearful of 
offending by a breath — standing upon the dark deck in a storm — 
carrying Mary in his arms down to the raft — walking near her in 
a green field, with the sun shining all round them — working at a 
boat, in a boat-house, with Mary looking on, and smiling — out at 
sea in a boat with her, and their eyes meeting — Oh! how blue the 
heavens looked, and how they swam round and round ! — a little 
dark room, and a bright angelic form comes flying in to him — a 
working man turned into a prince and a philosopher, with a noble 
and intellectual woman at his side, with whom he was imspeakably 
in love ; while a majestic ship, laden with books of poetry, and 
science, and practical philosophy, came sailing towards them ; till 
a small boy at the bows, like a Cupid, only that he had a frowning 
forehead, screamed out "Archer!" and then the working man 
awoke ! He found it had been all a dream ! The same kind of 
thoughts haunted him by day. The Worker had become a Dreamer. 



BABY MAY. 



Cheeks as soft as July peaches, 
Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches, 
Poppies paleness, round large eyes, 
Ever great with new surprise — 
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness^ 
Happy smiles and wailing cries, 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, 
Lights and shadows, swifter bom 
Then on windswept Autumn com, 
Ever some new tiny notion, 
Making every limb all motion, 
Catchings up of legs and arms, 
Throwings back and small alarms. 
Catching fingers, straightening jerks. 
Twining feet whose each toe works, 



316 A PEEP INTO A WELSH inON VALLEY. 

Kickings up and straining risings, 
Mother's ever new surprisings, 
• Hands all wants and looks all w<md«r 
At all things the heavens under, 
Tiny scorns of smiled reprpvings 
That have more of love than lovings, 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning, 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses, 
Graspings small at all that passes, 
Pullings off of all that 's able » 
To be caught from tray or table, 
Silences — small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches, 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing, 
Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we'd ever have such dreamings, 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we'd always have thee waking, 
Wealth for which we know no measure. 
Pleasure high above all pleasure. 
Gladness brimming over gladness, 
Joy in care — delight in sadness. 
Loveliness beyond completeness. 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness. 
Beauty all that beauty may be, 
That 's May Bennett — that 's my baby. 

W. C. Bennett* 
Osborne Rouse, BlachhecUh, 



A PEEP INTO A WELSH IRON VALLEY. 



Such a peep must be a novelty to many of our readers ; and 
as Wales — from the exertions of a Welch Educational League, 
from certain motions in Parb'ament, and from the appointment of 
a Special Commission of Inquiry — has become a subject of some 
considerable agitation, of late, we trust that our present attempt 
will prove neither unseasonable nor unwelcome- To him, indeed, 
whose eyes and ears are constantly dazzled and dinned by the 



A PEEP INTO A WELSH IRON VALLEY, 317 

ceaselesa sights and sounds of citj-thoroughfares> a glance, as 
from tlie top of St. Paul's, into the little busy nest of one of these 
remote Welsh Iron Valleys, may come not unpleasantly. Merthyr 
is by far the most important of them all ; but, for the present, we 
shaU direct our eyes to a smaller and a prettier. 

There, then, it lies beneath our feet ! We can see into the 
very streets and house-row spaces that straggle through the 
bottom of it : some portion of a true picture of Wales, and life in 
Wales, surely we shall attain to. There it lies, in the splendour 
of an autumnal sun* How beautifully small it is ! How minia- 
ture-like, somehow ! A gently-curving sweep it is between these 
two low mountain ridges, which, leaving the skirts of the high, 
bleak common on the verge of which we stand, approach to form 
it. The roots of the two ridges seem to digitate into each other, 
down there, at the far end ; but their tops remain apart, giving 
Bight to a remote mountain with the white dot of a cottage far 
away, and no other object visible. For there is a crystal clear- 
ness in the air, to-day, that makes the distant present ; bringing 
localities, usually considered out and beyond om* own, somehow, 
for the nonce, unto the very midst of us, — associating the whole 
family of hills around into one peaceful brotherhood of neighbours. 

Beautiful, beneath our feet, lies now our miniature valley, all 
golden in the sun of autumn. Patches of dark, foliaged trees, 
irregularly embossing the mountain-sides, contrast delightfully 
with the lighter, fresher green that flows between and around 
them. From the straggling street, that zig-zags, interruptedly, 
through the bottom of the valley, there are cottages in clusters, 
raying out on all sides : white cottages in clusters, up and up the 
elopes on either side, dwindling in number, till, here and there 
beneath the summit, they are seen solitary. How delightfully, 
they seem to doze, these high, solitary ones, on the flanks of the 
mountain, gleaming over trees, or shining above the fence- 
divided fields, which now are so peculiar — some freshly-gi'een, 
from which the later hay has just been swept — some waving with 
yellow com — some cut up into, and picturesquely dotted with, the 
bundled sheaves ! 

See there, far down, backed by the digitated roots of the tree- 
eihbossed mountain, far over these fresh fields, a stack shoots up ! 
There is white steam at the base of it, curling up the tall, clean 
column. Beautiful ! Beautiful are the trees, and the fields^ and 
the mountain flanks ; but in that whole lovely landscape is there 



318 A PEEP INTO A WELSH lEON VALLEY. 

one object more stnkinglj beautiful thau tl^ tall> symmetiiGal 
stalk, shooting up from the trees, with the snowy steam at the 
base of it? There is a most peculiar charm in it. It look& 
healthy, somehow — cheerfuL It wears nothing of the sulky 
gloom its brethren of the city wear. It shoots up so peacefully 
happy-like, with the fleecy steam beneath, curling up the aide of 
it — all contrasting so pleasingly with the blue sky, and the trees, 
and the fields, and the hills around. 

Nearer us (just by us, indeed — ^we can just faintly hear the 
breathing of the blast) are the dingy, well>smoked towers of the 
blast-furnaces. Grim, and black, and ancient-looking^ standing 
in a range ; by day almost deserted-like — ^their caps of flams all 
dofled in presence of the sun ; and, save the filler wheeling his 
ban-ow to the top, hardly an individual to be seen. 

Farther down, is the many-chimneyed forge ; the gleam of the 
molten metal fitfully conquers the golden splendour of the season. 
You can see the rapid roll of machinery there, and the busy, 
movements of many men. 

There, again, are the dirty, black, mouldering coke-yards — 
their lights all killed, Uke the stars, by the sun. Strange shapes 
of women, are they not, these that move about amongst the smoke 
and dust ? These are the coke girls, wearing black straw-bonnets, 
with coarse pinafores, that, girded in the middle, cover them from the 
throat to about a foot above their clogs. There they are, eyes, lips, 
nose, every inch of them, except their red gums and pearly teeth, 
saturated with coal-dast — ^there they are, in storm and shine, raking 
among these clouds of sulphury smoke and stifling soot, at ^ve or 
six shillings a-week ! They are laughing and chatting (not to say 
swearing) vigorously, however. Nay, see there ! the governor 
must be out of sight : a party of them have just succeeded in 
pushing one of their unlucky coadjutors of the male species into 
the water-course. What unmistakeable gesticulationfi of lai^hter 
and intensest mirth ! Among men, they do the work of men ; 
their strength is that of men ; their language that of men ; their 
actions those of men — a nice nursery for the wives and^mothers of 
Welch workmen the coke-yard must be ! 

. Looking now to the expanded mountain flanks, what ave these 
that seem mole-hills from Brobdignag ? These axe the tips. 
Levels are driven, in many places, into the mountaiii, and .these 
are the rubbish-mounds at the mouths of them, swelling, almost, 
into new hijls themselves, and increasing, from day to day, as the 



A. PEEP INTO A WELSH lUON VALLEY. 31 9 

laden trams, or tram-carriages, are tipped over them. See, on the 
top of one of them, are metal tram-plates, gleaming in the smi ! 
On the tram-road (a sort of railroad) formed by them, a horse 
drags a laden tram along. He is stopped — unyoked. The team 
is pushed forward to the very verge of the tip. There are two 
girls, in every respect like their sisters of the coke-yard, busy 
undoing the fastenings. The team is tipped up till its cargo of 
shale-rubbish faUs off, down the shelving sides of the mound. 

Tip after tip ! Why, the whole hill is dotted with them. What 
monsters some of them are ! How they differ in colour! — grey, 
and blue, and reddish ! Some of them are evidently the refuse of 
the furnace or the forge. Some of them seem smouldering and 
sulphury. Some of them seem deserted : the coarser grasses 
grow thinly around their bases ; and lazy cattle, here and there 
chewing the cud, look stupidly from their tops, dead to the glory 
of the scene, but dreaming, somehow, in an un-idead way, oi 
their security from the swords and spears of the gods. What 
wear and tear of muscle — ^what waste of human breath and sweat 
it must have taken to dig the shale which forms these rubbish- 
tips ! And not shale alone — that is but the refuse. Where are 
the innumerable tons of coal or iron-ore that came along with it ? 
What life, then, must there not be, at this moment, within these 
mountains ! 

Yonder is a balance-pit. Instead of a level, driven m(»*e or less 
horizontally into the hill, to meet the mineral, a pit has there 
been sunk upon it. There it stands, with its protecting roof over 
it, at the extremity of its rubbish-tip, surrounded by its orderly 
ranges of mine (or iron-ore.) The little pool of water that feeds 
it lies there, on the side of the hill ; and there is the little water- 
course that connects the two. See ! through the open side of 
the pit^covering, a tram has reached the top ; it is run off ; it 
contains shale ; and is dragged forward to be tipped. An empty 
tram is run on in its place. See, a wire is drawn ; a gush oi 
water falls from the roof into the tram. It fills — it sinks. A 
tram of mine, rises at the other side. What troops of girls are 
there, dressed like those of the coke-yard, but, like the men and 
horses around, all of an ochrey or brick-dust aspect ! Their task 
is to sort the miner— to pile it up into orderly heaps of certain 
dimensions. 

See, along that tram-road, are teams of ^ye or six h(»*ses 
drawing trains laden with lime for the blast-furnaces I Yxnuler is>. 



320 A PEEP INTO A WELSH IROX VALLEY. 

a canal with boats on it. And hark ! the whistle of a locomotive - 
See, it comes hiss-hiss-hissing up a railway ! Here too then ha^ 
the Wordsworth-hated engine penetrated. True poet ! rigid, high, 
but thin and narrow man ! even amidst these discordant screams 
and hisses, canst thou not hear Milton^s " Cathedral Music f '* 
Canst thou not see the Catholic front of Shakespeare there ? 
Canst thou not see thyself there ? Ugly monster as it is to thee, 
banishing all poetry and beauty, it brings Shakespeare and Milton 
and Wordsworth to lift their poor Welsh brethren nearer heaven. 
All earthly as these flames and smoke and steam may seem to 
thee, yet, in the midst of them, even wings of angels turn up ever 
and anon radiantly ! 

There then is the whole valley lustrous in the sun. You see it 
all at a glance : the gentle, alternate slopes — the embossing 
foliage — the fresh fields — the cottages, single or in clusters — ^the 
stacks and engine-houses — the furnaces — ^the forges — the black 
coke-yards — the balance-pits and pools — ^the red mine banks — the 
tips and the lazy cattle — the straggling street ! How beautiful it 
is ! How peacefully distinct in the clear sunshine ! How the 
crystal air cuts out everything like a gem ! All seems indeed 
gem-like, miniature-like, with filmy iridescent fringes somehow 
here and there, as if it were through a reversed opera-glass we 
saw it all I 

Such, then, is the physical aspect of our valley ; let us now dis- 
cover what forms life assumes in it. 

Looking along the turnpike road beneath our feet, and through 
the village, what objects do we see ? There are horses, in droves 
carrying wood. There are black, little girls, urging on demurest 
donkeys. Their panniers are laden with coal till the fetlocks of 
the poor creatures seem, at every step, sinking to the ground. 
How vivaciously the coal-black, white-teethed little women (of 
from nine to twelve) ply their work. They are adepts at the whip. 
Their "Chick," "Chick," "Come up. Boxer," "Come up. 
Sharper," are most fascinating to hear. Horses and donkeys, by 
the bye, are all worked in English, even by those who do not 
understand a word of it. There are wives and daughters carrying 
victuals to their husbands and fathers. There is a circle of women 
round a well. What an opportunity for gossip — ^not neglected ! 
The pitcher of one of them is just filled. A large-sized vessel it 
is, something like a Roman Amphora. A coil of cloth, extempo- 
raneously twisted out of an apron, or a towel, or something similar. 



A PEEP INTO A WELSH IRON VALLEY. 321 

being put upon her crown, a neighbour assists her to liffc the jar 
thereon, and off she straddles cautiously, like Rebecca from the 
fountain. Is it the weight of the water, or the quality of it, or 
what is it, that produces that unsightly wen on the neck of one so 
fresh and rosy ? 

Tender sure the members of a benefit-club marching in full pro- 
cession. The men are first, with tidy clothes and white gloves. 
They have sashes, banners, emblems, staves, and rods of office. 
The women follow them. How well and cleanly clad they are ! 
Substantial gOYms, large, comfortable shawls ; the sugar-loaf hat, 
with broad brim, fastened coquettishly a little on one side, and 
snowy muslin bordering their rosy faces.^ Reader ! You shall 
travel many a mile of her Majesty's dominions, yet fail to meet 
any such band of jolly, rosy damsels. We mean the unmarried 
ones ; for they have employment out of doors ; they are guiltless 
of stays ; their cheeks are clear ; their forms are full and healthy. 
The married ones, for the most part, however, have no such look; 
Shut up in their close cottages, debarred of air and exercise, 
worried by drunken husbands, their forms are no longer full and 
firm ; the clear fresh health forsakes their cheeks ; with ever- 
lasting tea and bacon, perhaps with tobacco and strong liquors, 
dyspepsia soon sets in with all the horrors of flatulence and 
hypochondriacism. 

Yonder is a funeral. In the midst of a seeming rabble of men 
and women, old and young, on horseback or on foot, in clothes of 
all colours, without order or arrangement, the corpse is carried. 
This has been some workman merely. Had it been any one of 
note, we should have had the clergyman and the doctor in tho 
van, on horseback probably, followed at seemly distance by the 
undertaker and the furnisher of mournings, all four with black 
gloves and several yards of broad black silk about their hats, and 
dangling down their backs. The silk and the gloves, by the bye, 
are gifts from the relatives of the deceased : the silk becomes 
profitable, we are free to say, in the shape of aprons to wife, 
daughter, or other female favoiu-ite. The reader shall make his 
own reflections on this selection of four such functionaries to lead 
the column to the grave. The clergyman, the undertaker, the 
furnisher of mournings can be understood, but the doctor — we will 
leave it — it is a sheer piece of practical waggery. But our work- 
man's funeral — ^hark ! as they go a Welsh psalm is raised. How 
solemnly it rises ! The motley rabble has assumed a new look. 

NO. XXXIV. — ^VOL. VI. Y 



322 A PEEP IHTO A WELSH IBON VALLEY. 

How the melody has fused and glassed it ! It looks holy now — 
sacred. Ah I hut the church is far, the day is fine, the way ia- 
pleasant ; the fewest will return in soberness. To many a man 
and woman there, this funeral is but a ** spree." 

Yonder appears to be a wedding party. Two couples, in 
Simday apparel, walk arm-in-arm, following each other. Boubt^ 
less, they have been spliced by the Parish-Registrar, who bids fair 
to do the Vicar out of all his marriage fees. By way of wedding- 
jaunt, they are now in process of making a tour of the principal 
public-houses. The admonitions they receive from their friends in 
each, however instructive and encouraging, are more remarkable 
for straightforwardness, than for elegance, or even decency, of 
speech. The bridegroom seems already, by sundry symptoms, to 
acknowledge the virtue of the various taps he has achieved. 

The doctor, on horseback, in sportsman's jacket, with some 
dogs behind him ; a farmer or two, on business ; a Scotch tea* 
man poking his brassy face from house to house ; men hawking 
Titanic stockings bundled across a stick ; children at pky ; one 
or two red miners or black coUiers staggering by some public- 
house ; women carrying water-jars on their head ; such are the 
objects to be seen in a Welsh village. Of these, the women are 
the most striking and peculiar : the affection they display for the 
cast-off articles of their husbands' wardrobes is to a stranger quite 
touching. The hat seems to be generally set aside as economical 
wear for a man's grandmother. As for his wife, you shall meet 
her in his waistcoat ; you shall meet her in his shoes ; you shall 
meet her in his coat, with her hands jauntily stuck in the pockets, 
and looking, the reader may be assured, infinitely amusing. The 
only marital garment that seems unworn by them out of doors^ is 
the small-clothes : a vesture so sacred is only for the hearth. 

But let us look nearer at the village. Let us peep a little into 
that double row of houses just beneath us. What huts these 
houses are ! How irregularly built. Doors that enforce the 
decorum of a salaam, not without record of the lesson remaimng 
on the hat of him who is rude enough to enter covered. Windows 
a foot or so square ; one half of many of them not glazed, but 
wooden. Small sleeping-rooms, small eating-rooms, we guess, are 
these. The row seems populous too. What miserable little hits 
of garden ground. What wretched fences, irregular, tumble-down 
compromises of stick and stcme. What indescribable little erec- 
tions all about, indeed, of stick or stone, for purposes the most 



A PEEP IKTO A WELSH IBON TALLET. 323 

varied. What old barrels Ijing down to hold dog or hog. What 
old barrels standing up to hold coals, or the brock of swine. 
What cow-houses, donkej-houses, horse-houses, dog, duck, and 
hen-houses. What porkers, with their farrow, grunting about. 
What asses standing motionless, statuesque. What busy children. 
What fun that wicked one is hating, who has thrown himsdf 
sack-wise across that astonished porker, and is thus being half- 
dragged, half-carried. A larger party are busy tormenting a poor 
doi^iiey. What fun they have — boys and girls, and pigs, ducks, 
donkeys, and dogs. How the women bustle ! carrying water, 
firing ovens, running about with huge loaves, bringing from the 
shop great loads of fiour upon their heads, liming the outside of 
their houses, washing out tubs, spreading clothes upon their bits 
of hedges, picking up squalling infants who have tumbled in the 
gutter, rescuing bloody-nosed urchins from skirmishes — ^Nay, 
there are two skirmishing themselves ! What gesticulation ! 
What words ! Words ! The very men, who are by chance 
about, slink into their houses in the purest shame. 

We have been struck, by-the bye, for the last half-hour, though 
we have not mentioned it, (but we suppose we must,) with the 
continual appearance of a certain utensil. Like Goldsmith's 
stocking, which was " a cap by night, a stocking all the day," it 
also has a double function — one of the night, the other of the day. 
Eeader ! its use by night you already know and respect. Its use 
by day, or rather uses, for they are legion, will astonish you, 
should you come to Wales ; but mind, you must not laugh. Let 
it be brandished and flourished before your eyes, in a thousand 
quarters, to a thousand purposes, respect it still ! Let the damsel 
bring it thee decorously with hand-towel and with soap to wash 
therein, with gravity accept, and thankfully. 

And this, then, is a Welsh iron-valley. Behind us, in that 
mountain, are quarries, clinking with the hammers of those that 
hew the lime to flux the ore. In the bowels of the earth, beneath 
our feet, are men, half-naked, cutting, by the light of candles, 
from the walls of narrow chambers, coal, to form the coke which 
melts it. But perhaps, they are idling now. Assembled in some 
common passage, illuminated by the combination of their candles, 
they sit them on the ground, smoking their pipes, drinking their 
beer ; while water all around drips from the roof ; explosive gas 
murmurs through bubbles on the walls, or, here and there, in a 
considerable steeam, blows loudly through " a blower ; " the dark 

y2 



324 A PEEP INTO A WELSH IRON VALLEY. 

mineral glitters on the lading tram ; and terriers, seated by their 
masters' victuals, bay the rats from them. 

Miners, too, beneath our feet, with picka^ce, or with blasting- 
powder, loosen from the earth, the ore. Horses, through long 
passages, drag in darkness, the minerals to the light. Boys of 
eight or nine, or younger, spend the day by doors that guide the 
current of the air, which is the life of all within. By locomotive 
along railway, or by horse on tram-road, these materials of lime, 
and coal, and ore, are brought to the furnaces. Stout wenches, 
with huge hammers, break suitably the lime and mine. Others 
assist the coking of the coal. The filler wheels his barrow of 
mine, or lime, or coke, into the crackling flame of the blast-fur- 
nace. At the bottom of the furnace, the moulder lays his moulds. 
The furnace is tapped ; the molten brilliance flows forth in a 
solid stream, filling up, one after one so takingly, its appointed 
channels. 

Lank figures of firemen, there, in the forge, reheat the metal. 
Their thin, swarthy, sweat-di'ipping faces gleam in the light of 
the open oven, as, ever and anon, with long rods, they poke the 
melting mass. How the white-hot mineral flashes hither and 
thither all about the forge ! How it spurts and sparkles beneath 
the squeezer ! How beautifully, red-hot, it is gradually rolled 
into long bars by the wheels of the rolling mill ! Along canal, 
tramway, or railway, the finished metal is now carried to the 
port, whence it is shipped, to civilise the world. 

And these workmen have all cottages, and wives, and families. 
And there are agents, and master-men, and gaffers, to rule and 
guide them. And there are shopkeepers to feed and clothe 
them. And there are lawyers, and surgeons, and druggists, to 
minister, each of his craft, to them. And there, in London, is 
the flower, the blossom of the whole, the Iron King himself, whose 
task it is to find a proper outlet for the labourer of the valley. 
Sorry are we that, among all these functionaries, the school- 
master may not be named ; but the way is clearing for him, and 
there is work for him. 

Such are the elements of Welsh society : few, simple, most 
easy of dissection, were it our present task to do so. 

But, as we look and meditate, evening comes. There is a 
peculiar glory all around. The radiance in the grass is yet a 
clearer gold ; and stands out still more gem-like every tree, stone, 
and cottage in the valley. The sun shines, as between bars of a 



A PEEP INTO A WELSH IRON VALLEY. 325 

long rail of splendour-oyerflowed clouds. The milk-maid is on 
the golden common, with her pail. That pit-mouth hristles sud- 
denly with men that seem springing from the soil. Groups of 
colliers come from the hill ; tohacco-smoke stains the pure air 
around them. Bands of men and bands of women, in parallel 
roads homewards, exchange, in boisterous mirth, the rudest jokes. 
Down house-rows children run to meet their fathers. Already, 
the lover, on the stile, sits by his mistress ; full many a sweet 
word has his native tongue to woo withal. Women are carrying 
water in yet a greater bustle. From mouths of levels, bestridden 
by coal-black, white-teethed little urchins, issue the willing work- 
horses. With their broad, clayey blinders, shafts, girths, and 
other tackle, they look like skeletons — fossil skeletons — newly 
dug. flow they snuff their way, well pleased, homewards ! Into 
what clumsy races their tyrannous little masters drive them ! 
There ! they have reached a river bed : how they enjoy the fresh- 
ness ! With what delight they flounce and plash about, and butt 
the water with their nostrils I 

Through open doors now gleams many a naked figure : fathers, 
brothers, husbands, sons, in grave ablution before the faces of 
their unconcerned daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers. But 
small accommodation for the toilet have even the girls, we guess. 

On bridges, and by blank walls of houses, gather now young 
and old to idle, smoking their pipes ; blithe in their relief from 
toil ; fresh in their clean clothes and well-washed skins. The 
more fatigued, and these are not a few, have gone at once to bed. 
From rare cottages the evening hymn arises. The taps are filling. 
Dance and the harp are heard : shouts of revelry and mirth. 
Hark, too, there are execrations, imprecations, curses, and sounds 
of tumult, when some intoxicated wretch fights with his brother. 

Night falls deeper upon them and us. The furnaces blaze up, 
and make the sky a flame. The heart of all the valley, which is 
the blast-engine, beats now audibly in the hush of night. The 
mountains indistinctly loom. The stars are out. And once more, 
the wTiat-doeS'it-mean ? — ^the mystery of all — the woe of all — 
falls on the heart of the penman. 

Fluellix. 



326 



THE TREE OF LIBERTY. 

BY GOODWTN BARMBT. 

Amid the tranks of forest trees 

What giant hole is there, 
Whose topmost leaves, amid the hreeze^ 

Float sunnily and fair ? 
Its branches are a shadow wide, 

Its roots are planted free ; 
To sing thy praise is poet's pride^ 

Oh, Tree of Liberty ! 

Its giant bole, a Titan tower, 

With moss is silvered o'er. 
Like ancient castle, in its power. 

It saw the days of yore ; 
The lord of centuries it hath reigned, 

Its own chronology. 
Within its inner rings hath grained 

The dates of Liberty ! 

Its feet are firm upon the ground, 

Its arms have widely striven, 
Its roots are in the green earth sound, 

Its top aspires to heaven ; 
And aye, in spite of woodman's stroke, 

It groweth great and free — 
The oak, the oak, the sacred oak— 

The Tree of Liberty ! 

Its branches are a refuge green, 

The kine beneath them rest, 
Its broad leaves are a shadowy screen 

For little birds to nest ; 
Beneath its shade, in hot noonday, 

In grass up to the knee, 
Both man and maid may dream away 

In love's sweet liberty. 

Amid its boughs the nightingale — 
The humble bard of song — 

Unto each white star tells its tale, 
While night 's hours fly along j 



THE TREE OF LIBERTY. 327 

For poets ever best have sung, 

Like song birds, when they are free : 
Their notes most sweet the leaves among 

The Tree of Liberty ! 

And now its boughs, while winds are calm. 

With gushing music flow, 
And high is raised a holy psalm 

Amid morn's golden glow ; 
And its green boughs are like the aisles 

Of reverend sanctuary, 
And Milton's sky-lark sings, while smiles 

The Tree of Liberty ! 

Nor bard, nor saint, alone can claim 

To worship at its shrine. 
Its rind is carved with patriot's name 

In many a growing line ; 
And every year each name of worth 

Increaseth gloriously, 
And grows, the book of all the earth, 

The Tree of Liberty ! 

There are, who say its spreading root 

Must watered be with blood ; 
The rains of God, I only note. 

Grant it their menial flood ; 
And mingled with the dews of heaven. 

Which fall refreshingly. 
Growth, fresh and pure, to it is given — 

The Tree of Liberty I 

Live, sacred oak, and flourish. 

In cleansing dew and rain. 
With breeze and soil to nourish, 

In spring to bud again ; 
And when thy Autumn acorns fall, 

May hearts be blest to see 
Each grow an oak as stout and tall— - 

A Tree of Liberty ! 

Then let us sing of Freedom's tree. 

And carve on it our names. 
And watch its acorns growing free. 

And celebrate their fames ; 
Its roots, firm in the earth, have striven. 

Its trunk is towering free. 
Its top aspires to highest heaven— 

The Tree of Liberty ! 



328 



YOUNG WATSON ; OR THE RIOTS OF 1816. 

PART IV. 



Two men were on the door-3tep, and Mr. Holl — in fearfal 
certainty of his arrest — stood, waiting to be seized, when, by the 
light he held in his hand, he had the grateful satisfaction to recog- 
nise in one, Pendrill ; the other was a stranger. 

The alarm caused by their midnight visit has been described ^ 
and the dread, attendant upon the fearful presence of the police 
officers, having been removed. Young Watson was summoned from 
the garden, and they once more assembled round the fire. After 
explaining to the new comers the terror their unexpected knocking: 
caused, they led the conversation to the purpose of their late and 
startling call. 

Pendrill proceeded to state, that he had brought a friend of his- 
— Mr. Poisser — for the purpose of consulting as to the best means, 
of Young Watson's escape, since his situation had now become so 
critical as to render a removal not only necessary, but immediate. 
Another party had by this means become acquainted with the- 
particulars of Young Watson s concealment ; and though the- 
services of Mr. Poisser were of great value in his after escape, it 
could not but be regretted Pendrill had been induced to entrust 
so fatal a knowledge to him. His assistance, as before stated, 
proved of great service in the after movements of Young Watson- 
Several plans were discussed ; but the lateness of the hour, and 
their uncertainty which to &x upon, rendered another meeting 
necessary. After naming an early day for his visit, Mr. Poisser 
left, in company with Pendrill. The rest sought their beds, and 
in sleep forgot their perils and their fears. 

We must now turn to the trial of Dr. Watson, against whom* 
— Thistlewood, Preston, and Hooper — true bills were founds 
April 29th ; and although these facts took place some short time 
after our present date, the particulars of their occurrence are BO» 
intimately connected with the subject of this narrative, as Uy 
become too necessary in their detail to be passed over. 

The arrest of Thistlewood, as before hinted, took place through 



YOUNa WATSON. 329 

the agency of the man Pemberton. A proclamation, backed by a 
reward of 500/., bad been issued for his apprehension, in which 
he was described as " about forty-five years of age, five feet 
eleven inches in height, sallow complexion, long visage, dark hair, 
small whiskers, hazel eyes, arched eyebrows, wide mouth, and 
good set of teeth, walks very uprightly, and has the appearance of 
a military man — (he had been a lieutenant in the army) — usually 
wore a French, grey-coloured coat, bujff waistcoat, grey Welling- 
ton pantaloons, with hessian boots under them.'' He had, by the 
aid of his wife's family — ^who were wealthy — obtained money to 
provide for his escape, and in complete disguise. He embarked 
on board a vessel bound for America. His disguise and means of 
escape were known only to Pemberton, who had pretended much 
anxiety to befriend him, and who was on deck with him, when an 
officer came on board, and' walking up to him, said, ** It's very 
well done, Thistlewood ; but it wont do." There is little doubt 
but Thistlewood was correct when he denounced Pemberton with 
having betrayed him. 

Dr. Watson, Thistlewood, Preston, and Hooper, were tried for 
high treason, in the Court of King's Bench, Westminster-hall, 
Monday, June 9th, 1817. The prisoners were brought from the 
Tower, under a strong escort ; and the Horse Guards had to clear 
away a passage through the crowd assembled at Palace-yard, 
previously to their alighting from the carriages. The Doctor 
was the first placed upon his trial, when, in the evidence for the 
Crown, several facts related in the narrative were adduced, in the 
endeavour to involve the father in the rashness and guilt of his 
son. "Plans," it was stated, "were arranged and matured, to 
subvert the constitution of the realm, and to put to death our lord 
the King. And further, to fulfil, &c., the said traitors, with a 
thousand and more unknown subjects of the king, armed with 
pikes, &c., did, with great noise, march to attack the king's 
Tower of London, and did endeavour to seduce certain soldiers to 
admit them, &c." The evidence of the infamous Castles set 
forth, among other and various charges, that "they meant to bar« 
.ricade the Bank, and, if the soldiers came, to bum the books, and 
so do away with the National Debt." 

The speech of Dr. Watson, quoted by the Attorney-general, in 
evidence against him, afibrds strong evidence of the pressure of 
the times we write of, and not an inapt illustration of the present 
state of suffering and distress. The Doctor was reported to have 



330 YOUNG WATSON. 

Bald, at the Spa Fields meeting, ** He was eidled on, because His 
Royal Highness the Prince Regent had refused to give an answer 
to the petition of the starving thousands, by whom he is sur- 
rounded — ^because four milli<His of our countrymen are in distress 
— ^because so many more are embarrassed — ^because one million 
and a half fear distress, while the few only enjoy splendid lu&ury i 
It is not this country only that is oppressed : our sister country—* 
Ireland — shares in our misfortunes. There the climax of misery 
has been brought to a close. There, suffering cannot be extended 
further! Will men continue thus for months and years to be 
starved ? No ! Parliament should hare taken into consideration 
the situation of the dying multitude, and not been deaf to our 
prayers ! Not a day passes in this great metropolis, in which 
people are not seen starving to death, and yet they will admit no 
means to relieve them ! Arrogance, folly, and crimes, have 
brought affairs to this dread crisis ! Finnness and integrity can 
alone save the countrj'." 

The speech of Young Watson, also adduced in evidence, carried 
out the same picture of distress. " The Prince Regent,*' said he, 
** in his great generosity, in consequence of our miseries, has given 
50001^. out of the Funds, which does not touch his own pocket. He 
plundws you of millions, and then gives you part of the spoil. 
They rob you of all you possess, and they give you a penny to pay 
the turnpike ! " . 

The trial lasted seven days ; and his defence gave the first 
great impulse to the after career of Sir Charles, then Mr. 
Wetherdl. A verdict of ** not guilty " was returned, Monday, 
June 16th. The instant it was given in, '* plaudits in the coiut 
made it known to others outside, when a general and simultaneous 
burst of applause, echoed from all parts of the hall." Lord Ellen- 
borough, who tried the case, expressed his indignation, in no 
measured terms, at so indecorous a proceeding ; but was answered 
that '* the concourse within and without the hall is immense." 

Immediately the trial was concluded, the Doctor proceeded witk 
Mr. Harmer, his solicitor, through a private passage, into Palace 
Yard, and so to Hatton Garden, where he dined witii Mr. Hanner. 
On quitting the house, in a hackney-coach, the people took the 
horses from it, and drew it down Holbom, and so through Fleet 
Slareet, until he arrived at a Mr. West's — one of his bail — in 
Wych Street, Drury Lane. Here he alighted. On the cry for 
** Watson, Watson," being raised, Mr West made his appearanoe 



YOUNG WATSON. 331 

at the first floor window, and said, '* Mr. Watson was so fatigued, 
lie was incapable of addressing thmn." After repeated cries, the 
Doctor at length showed himself at the window, and bowed several 
times, in acknowledgment of the reiterated shouts of the mob. 
The cry of ** Home, Home," was then raised by the crowd, after 
which they dispersed quietly, and in good order. The day follow- 
ing the Doctor's acquittal, Thistlewood, Preston, and Hooper were 
discharged from custody, ''as no eyidence could be brought 
against them." So ended this much>talked-of trial. 

A different result had attended that of Oashmau, who was 
found guilty, and sentenced to death, on a charge of high treason 
— independent of Ike other count of felony, and stealing from a 
dwelling-house. His eagerness to effect the escape of Young 
•Watson from the house of Beckwith, brought on himself the judg- 
ment of the law, although upon his trial he was reported to have 
paid '* he had no intention or wish to steal. He joined the mob 
because he was starving ! He had been sent from office to office 
without receiving relief. He did not mean to harm, or commit a 
crime — ^his object was not riot, but preservation of life." He was 
sentenced to death, without the hope of mercy or reprieve ! 

The next visit of Poisser to the house of Mr. Holl was attended 
with the same discussion, though not with the same result, as a 
plan was proposed by him, and eagerly adopted, for the further- 
ance of Young Watson's flight. Mr. Poisser, it appeared, had 
intimate knowledge, and was in correspondence with, some 
Quakers residing in America ; and it was proposed to disguise 
Young Watson as a member of that body, in the hope that he 
would be able to pass unnoticed in a dress so little likely to be 
suspected. It was agreed that Moggridge should make the 
clothes ; and to further the disguise as much as possible, they 
were to be wadded, so as to give a breadth and bulk to the other- 
wise slight figure of the young man. His skin also was to be 
stained, and his hair dyed. The mole upon his face had already 
been ronoved, so it was hoped the proposed dress would effec- 
tually conceal him from the eyes of the police. He was also to 
be provided with letters and papers connected with affairs of busi- 
ness, from some Quakers in England, in correspondence with those 
abroad ; and it was hoped, that even in the event of his being 
searched, this additional evidence would facilitate his escape, and 
add conviction to his being what he represented himself — a 
Quaker, about to go to America, on matters of business. 



332 TOUNa WATSOK. 

The particulars of his disguise agreed upon, their execution was 
to be effected as speedily as possible. It was ascertained that a 
vessel was about to sail to America, and Mr. Holl's eldest son was 
despatched to take a berth. Every possible agency in the further- 
ance of his escape was, it was hoped, by these means, secured ; and 
they dwelt with . eager expectation on the time when Young 
Watson was to attire himself in his new costume^ and try the 
efficiency of the disguise proposed. 

His friend, Pendrill, was, in all these matters, an active agent. 
Anxious for the preservation of the young man, he paid frequent 
visits to the house, in the carrying out such particulars as he 
thought necessary for his safety. The present residence of Young 
Watson was so surrounded by danger, that every day brought it 
closer to the door, and his removal became an hourly necessity, 
which each increased. His disguise completed, it was proposed to 
take him to some other shelter, where he would be less shut in by 
perils, though where was yet a question, since all refused the 
shelter, even of a night's lodging, to this rash and hunted man ! 
None would receive him, yet his removal was imperative, and, his 
disguise completed, immediate. 

As the time for Oashman's execution drew near, the distress of 
Young Watson assumed a sadder character — the man was to suffix 
death who rescued him from the fate he was himself about tounderga» 
and who had incurred that doom in preserving him from the conse- 
quences of his late imprudent act. His own fate was yet uncer- 
tain — if taken in his attempted flighty he might hang from the 
same beam. 

The execution of Cashman was fixed for Wednesday, March 
12th, and immediately opposite Beckwith's house was selected 
as the place for the law to launch its victims into eternity. In 
vain Mr. Beckwith petitioned for the removal of so horrible a 
spectacle from his door. The Secretary of State was inexorable. 
There the offence was committed — there it must be expiated. 

His disguise complete, Moggridge brought it home ; and when 
dressed, an entire change was wrought in the appearance of Young 
Watson by the wadded clothing, as well as by the novelty of the 
attire, and it would have taken a keen eye to have detected in the 
sleeky quakerly youth, with his dark hair and bronzed complexion^ 
the much-hunted •* young man in the brown great coat." His 
disguise was so successful, his friends could not but indulge iu 
sanguine hopes of his escape, which with the coming darkness would 



YOUNG WATSON. 333 

be at least attempted ; the necessary letters to his quakerly friends 
had not been forgotten, and everything arranged, they waited with 
impatience the hour for the attempt. 

Accompanied by Pendrill, Young Watson left the shelter of Mr. 
Holl*s house at half-past nine o'clock, March 5th, and with good 
wishes for his safety, his preserver bade God speed and assist him 
in his perils. 

Young Watson was gone, and his protector looked back upon 
the danger he had run with fear, but not regret. He had sheltered 
what none others would ; he had saved a feUow-creature's life, and 
he cared not for reward ; it was enough for him that he had done 
his duty. He had saved the erring and rash-minded youth from 
the gibbet and the cord, and he was satisfied. 

Young Watson and his friend Pendrill started forth to gain a 
shelter where they best could ; for although in part secure in his 
disguise from the dangers that beset him, it had not lessened 
the apprehensions of those whose services he asked and needed. 
On leaving Camden town, they made the best of their way towards 
Somers Town, to the house of Moggridge, whose counsel and 
assistance they solicited as to where he could obtain a lodging for 
the night. This Moggridge said he could not give, '* there was 
too much risk in it,'' and where to get one was the question ? 
After some consultation, Pendrill set out in the almost idle search, 
leaving Watson in the house of Moggridge, where he remained 
about two hours, much to the alarm of its owner, who was in great 
terror at the risk he ran for that short time, little thinking of the 
perils he had imposed on others ! 

His fears were at their height, when about 12 o'clock Pendrill 
returned, bringing with him a great coat, in which he proposed 
still further to shield Young Watson from the eye of suspicion or 
distrust ; his return appeased, in some measure, Moggridge 's 
apprehension, who afterwards said : ** God forgive me ! I thought 
he had gone to give us up." 

And this spoken of the very man whom he had himself taken 
to the house of Mr. Holl, in direct violation of his pledge of 
secresy and silence ! 

Having wrapt Young Watson in the extra garment, Pendrill 
and he made their way to the house of a Mr. Dennison, a cutler, 
in Smithfield, where Young Watson was permitted to sleep, and 
where he remained in bed during the day, fearful of being seen. 
The next night, Pendrill took him to a Mr. Clarke, a friend of 



334 YOUNG WATSON. 

TouDg Watson's, at whose house he slept, and remained con- 
cealed during the next few days, and where he made several little 
additions to his disguise, and also applied some means to remedy 
the defect of his drooping eyelid. His next remoral was to Pen- 
drill's house in Newgate Street, and hut a short distance from 
Beckwith's shop, the scene of his mad folly, the cause of so much 
peril to himself and others, and of death to his iU>starred rescuer. 

The execution of Cashman was fixed for the next day, and the 
noise of husy preparation in the erection of his scaffold, reached 
Watson as he lay. Barriers were thrown up to keep the people 
back, who were expected in mtdtitudes to witness the execution, 
and the hammering, or heary fall of timber, struck upon his ear 
the dreadful coming of the morrow ! The man who saved his life 
was to suffer death — death for his fault ! The thought was mad- 
dening, and each fresh sound smote as on his heart. 

The outdoor sympathy for the condemned Cashman was great, 
and fearful of an outbreak, or attempt at rescue, the military had 
orders to be under arms, in readiness to repel any attempt g£ the 
expected multitude. 

With the dim morning, the people came ! The gallows was up! 
The man was to die 1 The fearful knell of the dying, and his awM 
doom, called them forth as with a soft voice from distant home and 
bed ** to see the sight ; '* and the best view of mortsd suffering 
was bart-ered from many a window front or house<top. 

The grey mom had scarcely mixed with the black night, and 
seekers for the best places came straggling on, when a door opened, 
and Young Watson, Pendrill, and Moggridge, passed forth, and 
made their way through those who came or those who had already 
made their stand. Passed by the very side of those who had 
sought him far and wide. Him, whose name uttered on that spot, 
would have made them spring as at a started deer. He and his 
companions passed unsuspected on, and meeting still at every turn 
fresh comers to the scene of death, shaped their way towards 
Gravesend. 

The vessel in which he had secured his berth, "the Venus," 
had dropped down the river, from the docks ; and once on board, 
he trusted to escape a doom, the dismal preparations for which he 
had so lately left behind. On they went, walking with stout limbft 
and eager hopes to Grravesend. 

Meanwhile, the game of death went on ! The daylight came, 
and the busy crowd streamed in to see their fellow suffer. The 



YOUNG WATSON. 335 

barriers erected kept them in partial check, and aided by nume- 
rous police officers and their assistants, the people were held back 
£rom pressing too closely on the immediate neighbourhood of the 
gallows. 

The beU had tolled. Newgate gave up its prey, and the cart 
eame on. 

The multitude was vast. And as the sheriffs advanced with 
that fearful cart and its death- doomed load, the mob, in expression 
of their indignation, began to groan and hiss ; attempts were 
made at rescue, and to rush forward, but the barriers prevented 
their encroachment, and the crowd was beaten back. C ashman 
alone seemed careless of the fate awaiting him, and on leaving 
Newgate, had said : ''I am going to die, but I shall not shrink. 
I have done nothing against ray king and country, I have always 
fought for them." 

The cart came rolling on — halted — and Cashman mounted the 
gallows steps with a light and bounding tread. The moment he 
appeared on the platform, the groans of indignation mingled with 
hisses, were redoubled. The executioner, to hasten his work, 
began to draw the cap over his face, when he exclaimed, '* for 
God's sake, let me see to the last. " His wish was c(»nplied with. 
The bolt was drawn — the man was dead — dead without a sti*uggle. 

The street was thronged as for a fair ; windows and house- 
tops, filled with eager eyes, gazed on the sickening spectacle ! 
Alone, the house <^ Beckwith looked with darkened windows on 
the sight ! 

Meanwhile, Watson and his companions journeyed on their way 
to Gravesend. Hoping, but fearful in their hope, they passed 
along, and covered the long miles with willing feet. The town was 
gained ; the vessel was in sight. Yes, there it lay upon the 
waters, to him, at least, a thing of life, of hope, and liberty. 

As it was not thought advisable to Young Watson's companions 
that they should accompany him on board, with a " God bless 
you I " they parted with the flying man, and after resting from 
their lengthened walk, they journeyed back as best they could, 
and left Young Watson to the accomplishment of his flight. 

On deck, and mid the murmur of a hundred tongues, he dwelt 
alone upon the thought of freedom — of escape from danger and 
pursuit. Yet up and down he walked and felt each eye was on his, 
eager and suspicious ! . Fearful himself, he conjured up a thousand 
and a thousand foes, who oroased him as he walked ! Who shall 



336 YOUNG WATSOK. 

know the thoughts of that young man, who fled from death, yet 
feared its peril still at every turn ? Alone, he walked the deck, 
away from friends, from kindred^ all he valued — alone, and with 
but one thought— life ! 

The time had come, and the vessel was to sail. Fond eyes 
were stretching to the distant shore, while others looked with 
sadness on their own, and wondered if they ever should see it 
more ! The vessel was to sail, the goods were shipped, the 
passengers on board. The sails were spread, and swelling in 
the wind, the ready ship obeyed their impulse, and with eager 
leap ploughed up the tide ! All looked with curious eyes upon 
the seaman's craft, as sail on sail came swaying down, and 
caught the willing breeze — all looked — but there was still a 
pair of eyes, that looked intense, and burning ! The anchor 
weighed, and all ti^s ready for a start, when — Bomb ! A gun 
was fired from the shore, the signal to lie to. 

Had the shot struck his brain, it would scarce have pained him 
less. Young Watson sank upon a seat, sick, and powerless. 

With straining eyes, he saw a boat put from the shore — near 
and nearer it came to the stayed ship, and seated in the fatal 
craft, he recognised Vickery and Lavender, two Bow Street 
officers, 

** Fancy," he said when writing from a distant land. " Fancy 
my feeling of despair, when as the boat neared the vessel's side, 
I saw my old enemies — Vickery and Lavender, seated in the 
stern. They had some clue to my method of escape — they had 
tracked me, and I gave myself up for lost,'* The boat reached 
the gangway — was fastened to it, and the two officers, attended 
by a magistrate, mounted the ship's side. They were followed 
— Young Watson could scarce believe the evidence of his sight 
— ^by an old and bosom friend of his — a Mr. Whittaker, a 
clerk in Somerset House. Escape was hopeless — ^he was in 
their grasp ! 

It afterwards appeared, this young man had been pressed into 
the aid of the police (who had evidently obtained some clue to 
Young Watson's means of escape) in the hopes some sudden look, 
or exclamation, would betray him to their sight. For there is 
no reason to suppose Mr. Whittaker ever would have played so 
false a part as to turn bloodhound in the service of the law, 
and scent his early friend unto his death. Whether or nqt he 
recognised Young Watson, and had sufficient command over his 



YOUNa WATSON* 337 

l^oantenaQ<;e not to l>etray him, must ever remain a mystery, 
thougli the young man's appearance was so changed, that evea 
hif^old friend might pass him hy, unheeded, and unknown^ 

Once on hoard, the officers eyed round them with a keen and 
geardhing look. ** They came," they said, "in search Of some 
person who had committed murder." Every one was suhject to 
the strictest scrutiny, and fearful of detection, Toung Watson was 
about to go below, and so to find a hiding-place, amoiig the many 
recesses of the ressel ; 'twas well that he did not — -for a list of 
passengers was demanded by the officers, who told them off by their 
names. The crew was subject to the like inspection and the- 
Tessel strictly searched. 

The officers were evidently at fault ; all were on deck, and one. 
by one they were made to *' run the gauntlet," and to pass^ 
between the officers, the magistrate, and Young Watson's friend* 
A lynx-eyed watch was kept, not only on his countenance, but on 
that of each who passed ; when, strange to state, and affording 
another proof of the singularity of Young Watson's escapes, a 
young woman who was about to pass between the officers, fainted ; 
whether from fear or what, we know not — she was about joining 
a brother in America, and had lately come on board ; fearful as 
it was supposed of detention or itome hindrance to her passage, she 
fainted as she was about to pass, and drew upon herself the 
greedy eyes of the police, who looked with much suspicion and 
distrust upon her fainting form* Young Watson, witli a quick- 
ness, and readiness of wit, only met with in trying circumstances,, 
immediately proffered his assistance to " support the young lady 
while they pursued their search.'* The offer was accepted, ani 
the search went on. Passengers, crew, all passed ; and, one by. 
one, they underwent the keen and searching inspection of the 
police. 

In the meantime, Watson placed the fainting woman on a seat,, 
and moved between the officers as they stood — ^less perhaps an 
object of suspicion, :l^om his recent ready aid, than those who but 
obeyed the call, and went through the ordeal with indifference 
or complaint. He walked between them, and his heart in his 
anxiety beat with such a heavy pulse, he feared "the officer 
piust have heard it as he passed.' The peril of his situation, 
|ind fear of his detection, made it distinct, at least to him. He 
passed, and his joy may be conceived, when he heard one officer 
whisper to the other, " He is not here." : 

NO. XXXIV. — ^VOL. TI. Z 



338 YOUNO WATSON. 

These were indeed the channed words on which life had hung. 
The least indiscretion on his part, the least failing of his nerres, 
had ruined him. The accidental fainting of the young woman, 
and his ready wit in offering his aid, took from himself some part 
of the suspicion with which they looked on all — ^and aided by the 
strictness of his disguise, his stained fttce, and darkened hair, he 
walked unknown between the yery men who bad hunted for him 
^ and wide. 

The search was ended, and the officers, in erident chagrin and 
disappointment, descended to their boat, and as it pulled towards 
the ^ore. Young Watson's heart beat high — ^but it was with 
hope — not fear. Again he had escaped when ahnost m thekr 
arms ! liife was the one absorbing thought, in which all cen- 
tered — ^that life lay now before him, freed from the hazard of 
pursuit, and as the boat grew less i^n the sight, ho thanked his 
God, and prayed in thankMness I 

The spreading sails again were loosened io the winds, and 
the glad vessel straining to be gone, broke like a live thing 
through the free and bounding waters ! The busy shore was 
left behind, and with a glad and buoyant spirit, he saw the nrer 
parsed, while the bold sea lay wide and wild before him. The 
ye^sel breasted the strong wa^es, -and shaped its course, for his 
new homp— America t And thus Young Watson escaped. 

'Some months had passed after the adventure just detailed^ 
when the officers, LavoitetiBr and Vick«T, were t<dd by Pendrell 
of Young Watson's actual presence on board the searched ship. 
They were at first iscredulous, but upon the particulars of Ina 
disguise being described, tiiey were wrathfial to a degree, and 
sit^&jB hefird with much annoyance any allusion to his escape. 

A fbw days had passed after Yoimg Watson*s removal, whea- 
Mr, HoU's house, in which he had remained so long concealed, 
was searched, and himself put under arrest, on the charge of 
Ms concealment. His papers were also seized, and in Cold Batb 
Fields, bo remained a prisoner for more ^han six weeks. He- 
was examined upon the charge of high treason, and the har- 
bouring Young Watson^ before Lord Sidrnputh, at the Secretary 
of State's office, and underwen^t not only a most rigid <|ue8tioniiig, 
b^l was reminded of the ^tr^m.e danger of his position, as it waa 
stated they had "proofs of Young Watson's concealment in lue 
house/' These were fre^h trials for Mr, HoH and bie famiij^ 
vho were left in great distress and lear as to his safety, Meaai«> 



TOUNG WATSON. 339 

wkile the ietutless ^eardi went on ! Young Watson's escape 
hftvivg so doubt reaohed the ears of government, Mr. HoU was 
liberated, dSter enduring much anxietj of mind and body. 

Yojong Wfttson reached America in safety, and strange as it 
may appear, Mr. HoE ne^er heaard from him but oaee, and that 
** his best remembrance " cony^ed to him in some letter to a 
friend. He lired but a few years, and died in exile, and we 
believe in distress. His family — who ever testified the greatest 
gratitude for his preservation — ^remained some years in England, 
but the Doctor's patient industry in the carrying out his schemes 
for political freedom, and Parliamentory Reform, removed him 
in a great measure from the practice of his profession, in con- 
sequence of which b^ mA'da. bu^ a scanty living. Alter some 
years of hardship ^d endurance, he left with his family for 
America, and ^o commus^cation has ever been received to tell if 
ijxoy are dead or living.. 

The good genius ikpii seemed to wait upoin Yoimg Watson's 
steps is evidenced by the number and singularity of his escapes. 
That he had great presence of mind, and strength of nerves, is 
instanced by the readiness with which he availed himself of the 
young woman's fainting on board the vessel, as a means to take 
suspicion off himself, and it is stiU more worthy of remark, that 
of the many persons in whose power his life was trusted, none 
betrayed him, although tempted by a hea%'y reward— a fortune 
to a poor man — and nearly all were poor. In th^ midst of 
poverty and distress, he found fast friends, who sheltered — ^aided 
— ^and finally assisted him in his escape* 

There is no fable mixed with this narrative* It is homely 
truth, and a sense Q«f duty, and a justice to the dead^ has alone 
imposed the task. The agitation of the times in which these 
occurrences took place has passed away. The ends for which so 
many toiled, in later days have been achieved ; and we are now 
reaping the full harvest of what was sowed by patient toil in 
struggle with misrule, which viewed with jealous eyei encroach- 
ments on its policy and powert The tinges are gop^ when agita- 
tion for poHtical reform was met with eord and scaffold. Quietly 
') and steadily it has kept its march, and the still growing murmur 

of a people's discontent, has ^ari^ied out its. purpose and its will. 
And we now look back, almost with distrust, to times so little 
passed, when treason could be j^atheired from a household gossip, 
and a man's hearth be no s^urity from a minister's suspicion, or a 

z2 






k. 



340 THE TWIN BROTHEB. 

8pj*s mistrufit. And without wiehiog to uphold the rashnesi^ 
and intemperance which brought upon this young man, whose 
adventures have been detailed, so much sad consequence, we 
must still make some allowance for oppression then endured, and 
the necessities which in part led to the nine days' wonder oS- 
" Yoimg Watson, and the Riots of 1816." 

H. HOLL«. 



iEE TWIN BROTHER. 



The Brothers of La Trappe were allowed no intercourae with the world that 
lay beyond the walls of their Convent ; they had hardly learned the demise of 
ono king when they had lived several years under the rule of another. The death 
of their kindred was only announced by their religious Superior requesting the 
prayers of the congregation for the soul of a brother or sister who had passed 
away. The dead were not mentioned by name. The labour allotted to the Monks 
was peculiarly severe ; they were hewers of wood and drawers of water. All love» 
beyond that of Heaven and God were banished their domicile; they were laid to 
die on a bed of dust and ashes. The scenery around was of the most drearjc. 
kind) consisting of dark woods and a stagnant lake. 

Father ! spread out mine ash^ bed, 

For dust with dust is blending fast, 
Far o'er the Future light is shed-^ 

Yet pause with me upon the past ! 
Tho* 1 have crucified desire. 
And in the altar's holy fire, 
Have made a holocaust of all 
That does not lie beyond the pall ', 
Tho' 1 have fasted, watched, and wept, 
One altar human love hath kept — 
One altar in the heart that gave 
Itself to God and to the grave ! 
The love of woman — it hath fled 

The aching fast and horse-hair vest- ^ 
Such light temptation was not spread 

For this emaciate stricken breast — 
The short-lived, feverish, fond untruth — 

I learned its worth in stormy youth. 
The pride of human pomp and power— 
Say — lives it in this awful hour ? 
Wnen false and failing, blank and drear, 
The fairest dreams of earth appear. 
And hope scarce triumphs over fear 1 



V ■ 

4 



TBE TWIN BRO-THER. "341 

When dimly in the souVs dark skies 
The heavemy moon of faith can rise-^ 

Of my old self remains one thin^, 
To which long years no changes brmg-** 
One love, I ne'er could bend nor break 
With iir-Oh God « my heart thou'lt take ! 

Father ! I had a brother bom 
With me, on one fair summer mom; 
And the first face that met mine eye, 
Beaming with innocence and love, 
Was that twin-brother's — ever nigh ; 
And, like the young of the wild dove, 
We lay within one happy nest. 
Were formed and fed in one dear breast, 
Father ! that love it seemed to grow 
E'en with our stature and our strength ; 
So streamlets gather as they flow, 
And roll in mighty tide at length. 
I seemed of him, and he of me, 
Knit by some wond'rous sympathy ; 
Yet we were different ; I was grave, 
To sad foreboding e'er a slave. 
On me the shadow of the tomb 
Fell with a dull and sullen gloom ; 
Life was a feverish troublous thing-*P 
Passion — repentance — suffering- 
Wild gleams of joy, then scourge and prayer, 
To this sad birthnght I was heir ; 
God's judgments, in their deadliest guise, 
Hunff as a darkness o'er mine eyes ; 
While my bright brother could but see 
The mercies of the Deity- 
Long — suffering— patient — ^loving — mild, 
As mother with a sickly child. 
Averting lingering judgments due, 
Carrying, like lambs, the blessed few, 
Healing old griefs by mercies new— 
These were his visions. Faith like this 
Promised in life a heavenly bliss, 
And he was glad with hope and mirth, 
Enjoying all things from his birth 
Wisely and well — ^the gifts of Heaven, 
As blessings, not temptations given, 

Father ! when settled on my soul 
A sorrow hopeleiss— past controul, 



842 X8B Tfns BMSBSSL 

On my horizon's gathering night 
Our love yet shed one gleam of li^t ; 
But I would live and pray alon^ 

And yield an undivided heart 
For the Eternal Spirit's throne, 

A temple consecrate, apart,, 
From whose pure courts all thought was drives^ 
All hope, hut that of Death and Heaven. 
And I came hei«, — I need not tell 

Thee of my penit^ice and pain ; 
Within the walk of this dim cell 

I've wrestled with my heart in vami 
His image haunta the fevered deep 

That fainting nature steals from praysr ; 
When. Angels with me vigil keep 

The face of my twin-bom thw wear— 
The only one that ne'er deceived, 
That I, in darkest mood, helieved. 
His voice upon our anthem swells, 
He sighs amid the parting knelk ; 
My hrother at n^ side ha^h stood, 
Viewless, in this deep darksooe wood, 
Where the oak's knotted trunk I hew«d^ 

And granite blocks to atoms broke, 
And strove, amid the solitude. 

To tame my spirit to the yoke: 
Then, from the long grass at my feet, 
There rose a murmur low and sweet ; 
Fancy in human utterance wove 
The rustling of the wind-stirred grove ; 
The hollow reeds, around the lake. 
With mortal's anguidi secsned to qu^ce, 
While on the silence thrilled his tone, 
Plaintiye as parting spirit's moan—* 
" Brother ! why leare me thus alone ? 
All the temptations shunned by t^Me 
Yet gather darkly over me." 

Father ! I may not paint my dread^ 
When, at our vespers, thou hast said, 
" Pray, bzethren, for ihe kindred dead ! 
Unto his rest hath passed aw^ 
A kinsman's spirit — ^let us pray t " 
Oh ! then, I thought of my twin-bofn, 
Was it for him they bade me mourn ? — 
And had he died, aaid I afar ?— 
Parted his soul in grief and pain 1 



CLUB-CROTGHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 343 

And did he whisper^ from yon star, 
Fd taaght him trust i& man was v^n ] 

Father ! 'tis years since I have heard 
Of him, or from him, news or word : 
The chestnut hair, that decked his hrow, 
Is, douhtless^ streaked with silver now ; 
And o'er his clear eye's laughing light 
Gather the shades of coming night ; 
While, from his tones, have passed away 
The thrilling joy and melody : 
Yet should I know him were the change 
Deeper and sadder than my thought. 
Oh ! what may sever, what estrange 

That tie amid our b^ng wrought % 
How it hath fared with him in life, 

Alas ! it is not mine to know ; 
I've loved him thro* the weary strife, 
'Mid hopeless prayer, and causeless woe : 
For him my parting spirit yearns. 
And o'er Time's backward path returns. 

There, on Heaven's threshold, in the light. 

Golden and roseate, there he stands — 

As in life's morning young and bright. 

With beaming brow, and outstretch'd hands— - 

Father ! he seems awaiting me 

To enter in Eternity 1 

Mrs. Acton Tindau 



...■ <^|. iM t..rr1 I iliM Ml-.. ti-*»*4 



CLUB-CROTCHETS and cheap COMFORTS; 

SEIKO ^ 

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE WHITTINGTON FUND. I 



No. IV.~OUR BEHAVIOUR. 

A FEW paragraphs on the behaviour of full-grown men and 
women, may be liiought by some to savour more of the fopperies 
of Ayayoff, with his precepts how to sneeze, which leg to ptlt 
foremost, what compliments suit te^faz^ and what belong to ii^^ £'c.y 
than befits the pkinness of the Shilling Magazine, or the dignity 
of a popular assembly, like- our Cheap Club. And yet> seeing 



844 CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS, 

Ihat men and women are to meet in it on somewhat new terms, 
and that not merely their personal comfort, but also the well-being 
of the establishment it is their interest to support, depends on the 
manner in which they comport themselves, my wisdom ab9>cit 
the matter may not be quite so superfluous as it seems to ijiose 
who fancy every inan that pays his debts must be a Grandison, 
and every woman unwilling to elope on false pi^etences, a Harriet 
Byron. 

Considerateness without conventionalism ! Here are longer 
words than I like to use ; but they state the matter more briefly 
than, perhaps, it is possible to do in ** pure Saxon." To recon- 
cile the two is not a very easy business. Still it is not a 
science, for the teaching of which cottages should be built ; 
nor are all the niceties and fastidiousness involved in it, which 
some upholders of good manners would have us believe. For, in 
our Club, considerateness is not bound to meet the unreasonable 
whims and fancies which spring up — a hydra crop-^in proportion 
with the attempts made to satisfy them. Persons, for instance, 
who demand quietness, can have the demand met, until no silence 
is dead enough to content their impatience of sound — save it be 
the stillness of a vacuum ! Now, as doors must be shut, and indi> 
viduals of all sizes and all thicknesses of shoe-leather go (not 
creep) up and down stairs, it would be hopeless to pass through 
our club-life in an atmosphere of dread or deprecation of their 
hitler looks. The unfitness, the incivility (if there be any in the 
case) lies with them, for trying to trouble the average " Israel" of 
civilised folk, by their morbid peculiarities. Whether, even in 
domestic intercourse, the ** studying," or ** humouring" of these, 
is A mine when carried to excess — whether it be not a mean and 
cowardly deprecation of wrath and irritability fraught with its 
own punishment — are questions I am oftea tempted gravely to 
ask, and closely to argue. In a miscellaneous company, at 
least, to think of the feat is absurd^ because to accomplish it is 
impossible. 

Yet the free4oms, of which every man's club experience must 
remind him — the hardy and obtuse disregard of time, place, and 
person, one has been called upon to endure (supposing one is not» 
by nature, " a person of spirit," alias a Resenter,) are to be 
referred to in yet more emphatic notes of warning. Shall I ever 
forget the . tall gentleman, close buttoned to the chin, frowning 
with his own importance, lowering with weighty thoughts, who 



CLUB-CBOTCHETS AKD CHEAP QOMFOBTS, 34$ 

used to select the library of the as the theatre for the 

exposition of his opinions on politics, religion, metaphysics, the 
natural sciences, and the £ne arts, in a voice as loud as 
Lablache's, but as slow in its sound as the hammer of a sleepy 
paviour ? Shall I ever forget the deliberate and menacing history 
of his law-suit with his mother's brother, by a second marriage, 
which he would begin, continue, and end, in despite of furious 
looks, coughs, the emphasis of which there was no mistaking — 
nay, and an impatient exit or two — at the very moment when I 
was first making acquaintance with dear Mrs, Isickleby ? ** What 
/ said, and what Orger advised — and what principle forbad wy 
acquiescence in — and how the case was a very complicated one — 
and the sacrifices /was prepared to make — and what the opposing 
party had put forward," &c., &c., &c., &c., with a general 
dissertation on English law, by way of "ground,*^ (as the 
embroiderers phrase it) and a particidar encomium on every sepa- 
rate scrap of good nature or liberality, or willingness to accommo^ 
date, which himself the plaintiff had shown «•..». t • • 
Yet Boreworth was a just and cultivated man, and passed as well- 
behaved, failing only in that self-distrust which might have 
whispered to him, that the Boreworth Cause was not the matter 
which the entire world was waiting and wanting to hear about ! 
Was the rule of silence put int^ his hands,, by the waiter, sharply 
rung up for the purpose, its authority lasted but for a poor five 
minutes ; so far as the interrupting of the Great Case — its History, 
went — and, after that, the intolerable man was 

^ Swinging slow, with sullen roar/^ 

as ponderously as ever : difficult to interrupt, and impossible to 
impress. The Club was for Him, and He for the Club ; and the 
Committee of Ten, and the entire list of five hundred members, 
might legislate and rage as much as they pleased : there was no 
hojpe of bringing him into form and order ! He had never learned 
At home, or at college, or ;n church, to consider others ! But two 
9uch persons (happily, I hope and trust, there is only one in th^ 
world at a time I) would be sufficient to rend asunder thie entire 
time-honoured Fabric of Club-Society " from China to Peru." 
Well might the day of his quitting the haunts of Bachelor Men for 
domestic pleasures — of his confining his conversation to one poor, 
injured woman, be celebrated by a House Pinner which is yet 
spoken of, throughout every metropolitan association, as the most 
jovial in the annals of Clubdom, 



346 CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHBAP CMFMKE8. 

There isy again, that terrible oreatiirey ioHfiertaiised by Mr. Po^ 
— wkose fixed idea ifi the invefitigation of i^MiseSy amd faatiBg his 
uttermost money's worth for his money : the man who mem^ 
rialises against his mackerel as ''too smaH in the roe»" and his 
half-pint of wine as scantier, by a few drops» than ^le ha¥-pint» of 
all his neighbours— 'and who seats himself, purposely, at a central 
table that he may see how much better used the^ are than he ia, 
and profit, moreoTW, by all their secreta ! — I know not, in all thto 
Natural History of Human Trumpery, a more iiAiprepossessing 
specimen than this I-^-Bad is the fanaticism of setf-denial ; but the 
epicureanism of consummate selfishness is worse. It is apt to groir, 
too, on those, who, leading liyes of much toil, imagine that their 
leisure affords no duties to be performed, save that of snatching, or 
snaring for themselves, as much comfort, at the cost and contlibtttion 
of every one else, as is practicable. Let me E^eak a word, seriously, 
to the middle-aged, and unmarried, of my own sex : e&^^ecially to 
those who pique themselves upon their knowledge oi life : Mid 
sometimes, in a .sort of vapouring pride, are i^ to b^fin that 
pursuit of personal indulg^ices which ends in a craving that ffii 
Eldorado could not satisfy. One meets these dismal and h<»aieletfs 
creatures in every place of public resort— *hard, unloving, and 
unlovecl : querulous in proportion as strength and sjnrits Ual theta^: 
and disgusted when they perceive a younger world rising up aroufid 
them, which disregards their maxims, despises their egotism, and 
will have ita own share of pleasure and accommodation. A thal^ 
less child is a racking pain for old age ; but a thankless bosooEi- 
guest, such as indulged selfishness may become, is worse — ^a duller, 
slower, more hopeless malady,* from the symptoms of which by- 
standers may well recoil with aversion rather than pity ! — I do not 
write, recollect, as one impatient of the prime places given to the 
mature — because he is younger : or jealous of infiuence he can no 
longer secure, because he is older, than they : but with a middle- 
aged man's lively, daily, and hourly feeling of the encroachments 
which what are called " tastes " and " notions of comfort '* miay 
make upon the sound judgment, the kindly heart, the free-will. 
Perhaps it is nothing better than the terror of the most double- 
refined selfishness which makes me exclaim, " Let me never gi'ow 
a spectre, a scarecrow, an incubus upon those who are to lay xne 
in the grave ! " 

And yet it is not a mere battle with shadows, here, to dwell Oh 
the danger and misery of this foible : inasmuch as Club Kfe, beyoad 



JdlCftHCBOTCBBTS AKB CHEAP COMFORTS. 3i7 

all Others^ ttftj tenpt I^Mtte of small fortune», with few oiker laaeam 
of yarietj, to this hardened and hardening self-'OonBidjMration.'— To 
iaake a Ciiih or Hotel a school or place of peaance for Old Baohe- 
lors, were absurd : in iruth» a i^^ies of adult instruetion which 
would mix oddly with every man's own ** ease in his inn.'*— ^But it 
is a crotchet of mine, to warn all who are past thirty-fiv^ of ''their 
own chair '^ Or '' their own table '' — of the " bubble too mtH^h " aa 
indispensable to cookery, or the one particular temperature they 
must exist in, which is sure to be too hot oar too cold for some one 
<dae. At forty^fiye these httle propennties are no longer to be 
passed off wiUi a laugh ! they are then serious. At fifty-fiye^ 
they are necessities. At sixty-five, they may be offences ; and at 
eeventy-fiye^ tlie Club join in a general Te Ihwn wh^ ague or 
asthma keeps the Good Liver at home : no longer to monopolise 
ihe comer in winter and the window in summctr— ^'o longer to- keep 
the Myrmidons in fretted though submissive WMting oa his m^iny- 
isies. — Who would like such an old age ? 

Take it not amiss, then. Brother Member, if I rednnd you, thi^ 
U} read the newspaper quickly on the day after an interesting 
debate, is a oonrlesy, which may be of viUue to many of your 
party : that by not outrageously dawdling over your sditary drop 
or draught, after dinaer, you may be expediting the repast of seme 
hungry man : that you may have a n^hbour who can't help folr 
lowmg your. Devil's tatto^y to the utter dissipation of his powers of 
attention : and that if three people are sitting round a fire, two 
may be sensil^y afflicted if you poke it up into a blazing heat wh]<^ 
only makea for yoursdf a change of pretty dream-j^otupes ? Thei'e 
is great geniality in one's own joUity, no doubt : there is some in 
not utterly destroying, in not frivc^ously disturbing the jollity of 
others. And this may be shown, in a thousand ways, without fuss, 
or finicality, or sacrifice of a euigle indulgence, save those whi<^ 
Time will conv^t into burdens ! 

Nor must I overlook what seems to me a point of importanee^^ 
oonsiderateness for the servants of our Club, shown in s<Hne form or 
other such as shall befit a cheap and popular assembly. Let it 
never be said of us — ^what is urged, I fear too often with justice, 
against those who are loudest in raising their voiees against ihe 
luxurious insolence ei the aristocri^c — ^that we are harsh and 
tyrannical masters, who would be served most to our own liking by 
steam creatures ! Let us never hear the plea, that those who Wait 
upon us are in the plight of the '* skinned eels " so familisflr to 



348 OLUB-C&OTCHETS AND CHEAP C0VF0ST8. 

Joseph Miller — that they are paid for their incessant attendance on 
our caprices. True though this is : it is truth seized hy a wrong 
handle. And let it he recollected, that — inasmuch as there can he 
in a Oluh none of that home-feeling, which, I hope erery-Head of 
a household desires to extend to all within its pale, and which gives 
a certain charm and interest to seryice~-we are hound as men, and 
fellow-citizens, to consider the estate of those who mimster to our 
enjoyment of luxuries we could not hare at home. Further : it is 
not in the possihility of events that our servants can he of as high 
a class as those helonging to more costly estahlishments : all the 
more need is there, then, that they should have the helping hand 
of cultivation and indulgence extended to them — their lihrary^-w 
their hohdays : all the more need that we should ahstain from 
tormenting them hy immoderate requisitions, as religiously, as we 
should ahstain from hreaking the Oluh how-window, or spoiling the 
Oluh carpets in the had fashion which much smoking is apt to 
engender. If we are only to he made comfortahle hy the training 
and maintaining of an army of white slaves, the principle of our 
existence is helled : and our estahlishment deserves to he closed^ 
$0 far as the contempt of every lover of progress can close it. 

But, of all points of Behaviour, the one most needful- to he 
watched in our Cheap Cluh, is the demeanour of men towards 
women. Here again, Considerateness — hut not Conventionalism I 
as much civility as you please — but no sycophancy. We shall 
never, I think, err on the side of Bashaw-like callousness. We 
have got, thank God ! past the sensual folly of considering our 
wives as merely cooks and menders of linen, — and our friends, as 
only friends, in proportion as we are disposed to make love to 
them< or to excite a peculiar interest by narrating the wonders of 
our lives and characters, while, in open-mouthed silence, they sit 
to listen. Heaven forbid that we should, in any shape, see repro* 
duced, that German domesticity which allows the Man and the 
Hoiise-friend to sit grandly enjoying themselves and their mystical 
palavers, while the fervent woman is ever on her feet to feed 
them — to wait on them — taking a pride in playing the handntiaid. 
But the enervating civilities, by which alone some men show their 
cohsbiousness of Woman's presence, are to me almost as unpleasing, 
because arguing a state of degradation, admitted, and to he conoH 
pensated for. Theirs is no case of Mortal and Goddess, (one respedts 
one's Divinities!) but of Woman and Master, — or, what is lesa 
agreeable, of Man and Mistress / A thousand considerations mix 



CLUB-CROTCHETS AND CHEAP COMFORTS. 34:9< 

themselTes with the question which here it would he impossible to 
state, or to follow out : enough to saj, that, at thkt very time in 
France when women had the most supremacy as petites mattresses^ 
men were the most cruel* It was in an Arcadian bower, such as 
Watteau or Boucher would have been proud to paint, that the 
powdered, and laced, and patched, and rouged, and tinselled Brute 
of title stamped with his sharp-heeled shoe upon the ungloved 
hand of the Beauty sitting at his feet on the grass^— *' to s^e,'' he 
said, " whether her face would be disfigured by the expression of 
pain ! " Yet that was the age of handings-out and bowings-low : 
and of compliments studied in the Academie : and of Courts where 
a Fan seemed the sceptre ! In our Club, if women are really to 
irequent it : not merely to be made a show of — ^when Mrs. Howitt 
comes down to make tea, and Miss Rainforth to sing, or some 
other Lady (titled by genius) to read us a scene from Shakspeare— 
we must respect their independence. A mincing over-deference 
would become as vulgar, and leads to as much restraint and diffi- 
culty, as a hectoring and coarse disregard. Women are made 
exigent, in large part, by the folly and baseness of men* Were 
our courtesies to the other sex more simple and dignified — less 
contemptuously exclusive in being addressed only to Youth and 
Beauty, we should hear of less teasing, less exaction among women, 
in their spring and early summer — ^less sourness and selfishness in 
their autumn. Those who spoil the child, have no right to complain 
of her childishness ! Those who live in a perpetual atmosphere of 
softnesses, — fit only for the love-making into which we all fall, 
blessedly, once in a lifetime, — ought not to breathe a word of 
complaint if perpetual love-making is expected from them, and the 
most eagerly when it comes the most sparingly. That any woman 
could be put to the blush, in our Cheap Club, it would be impossible, 
for one instant, to imagine ; but, let her sayings and doings, her 
ways and her fancies^ be an object of tender observation or cynical 
impatience, and she will take her share simply, naturally, and — I 
hope and trust — ^without often rolling the apple of discord on the 
floor to make a scramble among rival candidates. 

But enough : and some will say more than enough — of remarks, 
to the truth of each one whereof some person will bear witness,-— 
to the connection and combination of which, as a whole, possibly 
no one will subscribe. Be they good or bad — sound discretion or 
silly drivelling, I feel assured that there is a self-consistency and 



S50 THE EaTPTUN COiiVETTE. 

a harmonj anong them : that as illuatrfttions of the principle 
^* For all and for each," they are crotchets which (as the musicians 
would saj) make up a phrase which has a character and a meaning 
of its own. To he canrassed then, for agreement, for objection, or 
ifor rectification, I leave them honestly and heartily. May the 
Institution in whose cause they were undertaken, prosper : and it 
foiU : so long as it is based upoa real jwinciples of liberality — 
wUch imply, at once, something of strictness on the part of each 
member to himself, and of generosity to others — ^in the adnainistra- 
tion of, or participation in, the details of daily life and o<myersatioB. 



. H..^ JT I 



THE EGYPTIAU COQUETTE. 

By TH]B AlFTHOB OF " AZJB^TH, THB EGTPXIAN. 

-, — ♦ — 



>> 



Bj^ioht flowers round the gloomy tombs ! A gay bird blithely 
singinj; on the pyramids* eternal height ! Seated by the side of 
the pnest of Cneph, and laughing in the eyes of the stem Isiac 
hierojphant, winning from his gravity the Hermesian philosopher, 
tJid calling back to life, and love, and Joy, the worshippers of the 
ineffable fiicton ; behold the bright flower of life — the gay young 
bird of love— the beautiful coquette of Mizraim * I We could ©ot 
spare thee, child of laughter ! Thou art not of the noble — ^but 
thou art of the beautiful of humanity ; and Nature cradles the babi^. 
and the hero, the forest oak and the flaunting tulip, with the same 
love as though they were equals lying together upon her mighty 
bospm. The earth is wide enough for the daisy aud the butter- 
cup to find a place within its gamers, though com and fruits arQ 
treasured there ; and our hearts may not be so strait that they 
cannot love the unlike— that they camipt give to the one honour 
and revorenc0, and to the other, an adn^iration which can best 
speak in jests, and a love that has nought deeper than mirth fo^ 
its interpreter. 

Our coquette is young and fair ; and this is an excuse for every 
fault that is not cnme ! Youth is imperfectlon*s best pleader, and 
rarely does it lose its ciau^e. From the petty waywardness of the 
froward child, nestling, like a cherub lost from Peaven^s courts, in 



Egypt. 



'" » " ^ 



THE ECITPTIAN COQUETTE. 8^1 

lis mother's arms, to tbe innocent ranities^ and pretty afeoiatious 
of the spwlt beauty, whose Hfe is the pole-star of hundreds — ^and 
whose love has been deified beyond humanity — ^youth ezettses its own 
faults. For, indeed, that which is called virtue, but which is often 
onfy a part, not the whole, of good, is neither so amiable n<Mr 
so lovely as much which falls, under the censure of the severe. 
The fault of l&e moralist consists in his excluding grace and 
beauty from the circle of his virtues. They are virtues ; gifts 
from Heaven, pure and direct ! Why shoidd they be scorned 
because they are not temperance, or fortitude, or courage ? Is the 
rose unworthy because it i^ not the grape ? Shall the lark be 
onboard because it is not the eagle ? To each, its place, — to 
each its honour ! 

To all women, love ! 

We repeat this. To all women, love ! To the ehaste matron 
-•-to the tender mother — ^to the pure virgin sitting akne m her 
maiden's modesty, unseen and unregarded — to all, honours-aye, 
and reverence, as to incorporations, in their degree, of the l^ivine 
Spirit. And, still further : — to you, gay and thoughtless one— 
you child, rich in health and joy — ^rich in love, in place, and friends 
— she, whose smooth brow was never furrowed by thought— whose 
heart has never known distress — to the bright-eyed bird fleeing 
through its cloudless heaven, and for ever chirping its merry note 
— ^to the young coquette, the giddy flirt, the thoughtless, mindless 
beauty-— even to her, love and admiration ! Out upon the cynic 
who would deny it ! Shame upon the virtue that would reject 
her ! She hath her place, yon thoughtless one, and nor sage nor 
priest may spurn her from it I Carved out by Nature's own hand, 
her niche stands in the temple of Flection ; and, without her, 
the world would be incomplete as the hedgerows in the summer, 
were no lowers blooming there— no birds disporting. 

In the past, the Graces were of the rough Latin religion ; the 
dtarites were the gems of the Hellenic ; the Apsoras haunt the 
sleep of the Hindu, and iheir -prototypes, m earthly womanhood, 
«|iU live on SgyptiaR w«Ufl. Though ages have passed inito the 
gulf of tigoj^e-^^tJimigh kings a»d heroes have be^a laid in llie dust — 
though the mighty ones have perished, and the strength of the 
morning has becpine weakxLoss— stiU lives oo the sweet memory of 
fr^^e bowity ! The t«9)bs.hidd bue^ th^s pages of j&any a dark 
book of lore osalk m^«^/&fjf for which the world would pay down 
gold as it were «ea«8and t my^s, arts, faith, and knowledge, 



352 THE EGYPTIAN COQUETTEf 

these have faded awaj, while the stem tablet which has registered' 
not poetry, and has hidden the secrets of science, has presenred^ 
fresh and yiyid, the record of woman's loyeliuess ! The emerald 
table of Hermes has become one of the mystic juggleries of thd 
alchemist ; but the metal mirror, in which beauty smiled to see 
herself reflected, is among the hoaxded treasures of time. The 
mysterious compounds, unknown to us, by which such brilliant 
effects in art were produced, hare crumbled away into dust, and 
their individuality reincorporate with the uniyersal life ; but the 
jetty dye wherewith the maiden deepened the lustre of her 
languishing eyes, and lighted up the torch which should consume 
the happiness of the Egyptian youth, still exists to teach the 
sweet women of earth one othef grace by which they may become 
the sole rulers of that earth. 

Nay, start not ! In the grim case* thou seest there — ^yon 
shapeless mass swathed in painted wrappers — ^yon crumbling 
skeleton, grinning in mockery at the care which would haye pre- 
served its life through mouldering cerecloths and precious balma 
— ^was once the home and the form of beauty, youth, and love. 
And, beneath the shadow of the eternal pyramids-— laving her fair 
feet in the splashing waters of the mighty Nile — standing by the 
gigantic pylon t of the dread temple, while the holy train sweeps 
past and fills her foolish heart, so flight and vain, with solemn 
thoughts and wondering awe — in Egypt, the land which gaye 
birth to the sphynx, and shadowed out such grand, such glorious,, 
but overwhelming truths^— even there, bloomed the gentle flower 
of woman's beauty and woman's coquetry, - Come ! we will wave 
the wand of life, the mystic Tau |, once more over that crumbling 
skeleton ; once more the rattling bones shall be indued with life, 
and the spirit shall reanimate the dead, and snatch its prey from the 
tomb, and rescue his victim from the hands of the Dread Judge ||. 
. Burst thy cerecloths, Maid of Egypt ! Arise from thy narrow 
place in the sterile valley of the tombs, and come fdrth before our 



.MfWiaaka 



• Every one knows that the corpse, or mummy, after the embahning pro- 
cess, was swathed in linen bandages, piunied and ^ded, &c. then placed in a 
wooden case. 

+ The gateway which led into the propyleum^ or court of a temple. 

J The Cross, an emblem held by every Egyptian god, as a token of life. 
• § Osiris as Onnofre, 6r Judge of Amenti. Amenti is the- Egyptian Hades, 
or Hell, the place of the departed, where Osiris Qnnofre, the Dread Unname- 
ablej sits as judge, and awards the degree of Metempsychosis. 



THE EGYPTIAN COQUETTE. 353 

^yes in all the feelings of thy youth, and in all the fulness of thind 
adornments. Let us look upon thy bright young brow, as it 
lightened on the day in the hour of life ; let us print a kiss upon 
thy lips as they glowed in Arch seduction when thy lover passed 
thee by ; let us stand beside thee and press thy gentle hand in 
ours, and learn from thee what was beauty and love in the land of 
Khem * — what was maiden's coquetry in the hundred gates of the 
mighty Thebes, and in the streets of the merchant-city of Memphis* 
Fames, dark and gloomy, and weird enough ; it seems almost a 
mockery to bind up woman's grace with them I 

The morning has risen, bright and unclouded ; the majestic 
fiun sweeps forth from her t chamber, dazzling in her virgin splen- 
dour, to greet the young day-god, the bashful Ehoouj:, as he 
springs up from his lotus throne, where all night long he has slept, 
hanging his fair head, and closing his silent h'ps with his hand* 
But fair as the young child of Athor the Beautiful §, is that sweet 
maiden, who now opens her long almond-shaped eyes upon the new 
day. Sweet have been her dreams in the night, and favourable || 
the omens that first greet her. Not sounds of weeping — not words 
of wrangling and discomfort — ^but childhood's meny laughter—* 
music, mirth, and joy — ^these the morning auguries to Egypt's 
graceful maid. The uncovered opening in the chamber, which 
served her for the more modem window — ^for the ancient Egyp* 
tian was too wise to glaze these apertures, when such a burning 
sun beat down upon them — looks into the gardens of the city, 
where she may feast her eyes upon all those glorious flowers which 
the skilful Theban imitates so well, or rest them upon the quiet 
green of the palm, and the acacia, and the pear-tree, and the fig- 
leaf. She may hear the Nile as it wanders by — Egypt's fertilizing 
god ! and she may turn her heedless soul to higher thoughts, aS 
her glances catch the streamers which flutter on the pillars of th6 
pyla belonging to the temples. The princely halls of the nobled 

ii ' ' M ■ M ... - i n 

* Khem is Ham, or blackness. Khemi, Egypt. 

't* The smi is feminine in £g3rptian mythology ; the moon, masculine. 

X Eh6ou, by some is supposed to be the sun ; but Sir G. Wilkinson, with 
greater propriety and poetry, has given him his place as the youthful 
day-god, third of the triad, of which Athor is second. 

§ Of all the Egyptian deities, Athor most nearly corresponds to the 
Grecian Aphrodite. Isis is m<»re the mystic Silene, Rhea, &c., than any 
deification of physical beauty. 

jl All chance, whether of deipd or soimd^ served as omens for good and 
*vil. 

NO. XXXIV.— V0I» Tt* A A 



354 ' THE EGYPTIAN CO^UETIS. • 

have also these sftme haaoers, hut their gateways are not sa, 
majestic, nor are the pillars so loftj ; and oar fair joung coquette 
cannot see even the shadow of the streamers which wave round 
that sacred place where dwells the one she would fain call 
"brother."* 

She opens her dark eyes, bright with the memory of the dreams^, 
that linger round her ; she turns her smooth cheek, fresh and 
warm and glowing, like a rose-bud glancing up fixim a field of 
ebony as she throws off from it the straying hair ; and her fvSk 
lips part, and heave a gentle sigh, that she has wakened from, 
such blessed idealities to the truth of an existence whose reality 
is below its promise of hope. The bed, itself, is a very world at 
wealth ; luxury has done her utmost on it ; and taste and refine- 
ment have made it the fit habitation for a god. That foreign 
deity, of whom the strange merchants from Ionia and Attica speak 
se long and warmly, Aphrodite the Seaborn, might have cushioned 
her dainty limbs upon it, and never have found that it was a- 
mortal's bed she shared ! Our fair coquette is loth to leave hex* 
midnight couch. The toilette is none so short nor light a task ta 
her ; so much must be done before she may show her charm» . 
abroad, that she shrinks from the labour, and would fain lie stiQ 
upon that worked bronze frame, with all its luxurious pillows, and 
^ue linen scented with costly perfumes ; its carved alabaster headr- 
pillow, painted and gilded, and lying beneath her- head, as the 
lotus beneath the young deity of the morning. No heavy curtains 
close her in, to shut out the fresh air that comes through the wiob* 
dow up from the Nile ; but she lies, like a flower beneath the 
sky, pUlowed upon her arm, with nothing- but the lofty ceiling of 
the chamber to enroof her. The bed-linen^ perfumed with the 
costliest drugs and essences of Arabia, is of fine manufact«re> 
worked with the needle and ornamented with colours, — in some 
parts with gold. But our coquette is extravagant, as all coquettes 
must be ; and she pays for the night-gear, which no eye sees but 
her own, the same price that many would give for their stateliest 
robes of ceremony. All that snowy drapery which now enwraps 
her came from the Theban looms ; it is the finest that Egyptian 
fingers can spin ; and the land which sends forth " woven air "' 
to India, Greece, Babylon, Tyre — ^perhaps even to the Central 
Flowery Land, that mysterious place of the stationary or consenra- 

• Equivalent to husband. 



13BDB EGYPTIAN COQUETTE. 355 

tire principle — does not manufacture to little avail ! The cushions' 
are made of feathers, and covered with fine linen, some with em-^. 
hrbidered blue or scarlet stiijBP. They are fit to receive the impress 
of that delicate form — to kiss the dainty cheek, and to be enlaced, 
by all that long black hair ; and if fitted for this, they must bc^ 
all beauty and grace. 

The maiden rises. She thrusts her little feet into a pair of the 
beautiful slippers of Anthylla,* and calling her edaves — happy in ; 
their servitude ! — she begins the momentous hasiness of the 
toilette. A true Eastern, she must first refresh herself with a. 
bath» that greatest luxury of the East ! While there, sweet 
essences are poured over her ; perfumes are burnt in bronze or 
gilded censers ; and fresh flowers are constantly waved before 
her ; While others are heaped up in jars of fine porcelain, or flung . 
in handfuls upon the water. Her slaves wring out her dripping 
tresses ; they smooth them with their hands, still pouring rich 
unguents upon the shining threads, until each separate hair 
gleams and glistens, as though it were stolen from the plumage of • 
the raven. Her delicate skin must only be touched with the 
softest napkins, fringed and embroidered round the edge ; they . 
have been many a day's work to the patient handmaid, who has 
woven them so skilfully. As the slaves spread them forth, a 
pleasant and faint odour steals out, as when you pass by a bed of 
lilies hidden among the trees, or bruise the scented grass with 
your foot, unconscious of its secret, or pillow your head upon mosa 
tufted with violets, whose large leaves have hidden both their 
beauty and their being until then. It is a pleasant hour, which^ 
the young coquette passes in the bath. In a continuation of the- 
last sweet dream, in which were images of love and joy, she lies 
there, awakened only for a more intense enjoyment. Increase' 
and deepen, ye images ! until ye have such substance and reality 
that life may not be needed for ye ! 

The sleek hair is smoothed ; the soft body, refreshed with the 
bath, isdried by the handmaids, and scented anew with the per- 
fumes in those long glass bottles and porcelain vases ; and beautiful 
as a young Naiad of Hellas, she emerges from the waters, moio 

* Anthylla was celebrated for its vines and its slippers. It becaipe, after 
the Persian rule, the city of the queen's pin-money. Its wines gave her 
cash, its hides gave her sho^s ; and it was not bon ton to wear any Ibut the- 
slippers of AnihyUa. Even E^pt had her fashionable cordonmers pmr les> 
d»m»J 

A A 2 



356 THE EGYPTIAN- COQUETTE* 

fresh, Inore winning, more seductive, than the loveliest of her 
sisters. 

And now the most important part of the daily labours must he 
commenced. As yet she has but laid the foundation for that 
superstructure of dazzling beauty, which must soon glow upon the 
morning air. Her handmaids cluster round her, each busied in 
some graceful art, or proud to show hei" skill in some elegant 
adornment. One holds the coloured strings, with which the other 
ties the long, sleek plaits, into which she arranges the jetty hair ; 
another offers the little box of alabaster, shaped as a column, and 
covered with painted hieroglyphs, which is filled with the mys- 
terious black powder that works such mischief to the peace of 
Egypt's youth ; and the petted beauty, taking it from her hand, 
carefully moistens the slender bodkin, then applies the far> famed 
kohl to the lids of her long eyes, and thus gives them the last 
grace of art to perfect their beauty of nature. Ointments, per- 
fumes/ and essences, do their work. The smooth brow is bound 
with a golden fillet, in which a lotus-flower is placed ; the slender 
arms are encircled with bracelets, or of gold or of lazule stone, or 
of gems or of vitrified porcelain ; the taper fingers are decked 
with rings ; chains glitter upon the swan-like throat ; the small, 
round ear is hung with costly jewels ; the swelling waist, uncon- 
fined by any barbarity of modem times — by st&y, or bone, or lace 
— shows each pulse beneath its Qpstly zone, and the bosom heaves 
with the gentle breath, making the jewels resting on it sparkle in 
the changing light. The dress, of thinnest linen, is thrown over 
under-garments of thicker, though still light, material. These 
may be, to-day, of deep blue, striped with slender bands of white. 
The robes reach to those lovely feet, which peep out half shyly 
from beneath them, and are but partially covered by the gorgeous 
sandals ; at her neck they are confined by gems, over which is 
thrown the more simple lotus necklace ; the sleeves extend but 
midway to her arm, showing the white and firm fiesh, which puts 
to shame the Red Sea pearls that clasp it ; and the zone before 
mentioned, gathers the plaits round that faultless waist, whose 
beauty seems to be increased, not hidden, by its covering. If the 
Egyptian women overlaid fair Nature's work with the allurements 
of art, they yet had too fine a sense of the beautiful to substitute, 
or to transform, that which Nature had bestowed as her best 
charm. If they acted on the truth of the approbation of the one 
sex being the happiness of the other, they had too much wisdom. 



THE EGYPTIAN COQUETTE, 357 

to make other laws tban those which experience had framed, and 
to offer false fashions in the place of natural allurements, through 
the attractions of a refined sensuousness. The small hodj, out of 
proportion with the limhs and the stature, was never half so 
attractive, even to an eye harharised hy long custom, as thq 
yielding waist, where the touch meets nothing harsh to oppose it, 
and where the eye is not pained by the hard whalebone, thQ 
sharp pins, and the suffocating ligatures, by which our maidens 
wage eternal war with symmetry, ease, and grace. 

The bright eyes of the coquette light upon the jewels which 
deck her bosom. She examines them ; then, dissatisfied with 
their arrangement, tears them off, looking over her stock to see 
what better mixture she may make. In good faith her casket is 
richly stored ! Come they from lovers, friends, or by inheritance, 
they are a dowry, these jewels, which might portion half the maids 
of Memphis ! Of varied shapes, too, and of strange materials, 
they form a curious collection of wealth and simplicity. Diamonds 
gleam beside vitrified pottery ; the deep green emerald of the 
mines is cased together with the xenite, or the pale pink came- 
lian ; the lapis lazuli, with its brilliant blue, is almost rivalled by 
the Theban stained glass, and mock pearls cheat the eye by 
assuming all the beauty of the true. The shapes of these jewels 
are the same mixture of elegance and imperfect taste. Some are 
in the form of bells hanging from a slender string ; others are 
oblong beads strung together, with smaller ones intervening ; 
some are beautifid exceedingly, being golden leaves twined round 
the stalk ; while deeply-cut scarabsei depend from a broad band, 
and circle the throat with a mysterious loveliness. 

Her bracelets, next, the fair maiden reviews. Some are too 
plain : simple gold bands with perhaps a devout or loyal apostrophe 
engraved in the centre, they have scarce sufficient lustre for her J 
That little snake, made of plates of gold, and elastic and flexible, 
seems to suit her better ; and she chooses this, using the plain 
band to gird her arm fast above her elbow. Ear-rings of light 
fanciful devices, with large pearls or sparkling emeralds set, as 
drops, in a mass of filagree work, she next considers ; and taking 
out those which her handmaids have already fastened in, those 
massy rings, with the figui-e of a sacred scarab worked on them, 
she surveys herself in her mirror, while fastening the others, the 
proudest and the gladdest dame in Memphis. And that round 



«358 • trSX EGTPTIAK OOQTTETTB. 

metal mirror set in gold and supported by Atibor^ tbe Beaai^fal» 
as by a handle, could not reflect a conntenanee of more loyeliness 
than that now beaming in it. The forehead low» but broad and 
full ; the long eyebrow, gently iu*ched over orbs black as night, 
and almond-shaped, to which the thick lashes and the artificial 
tinge of kohl^ give a peculiar expression of languor and voluptu- 
ousness ; the nose, well shaped and rather broad, with curved 
nostrils of quick and frequent dilation ; the full lips firm and 
arched, blushing over teeth white and small as pearls, and gaining 
more beauty from the rounded chin and smooth cheeks of such 
glorious glowing richness ; and all tiiis enhanced by the long, long, 
hair falling down in many plaits, so thick, and soft, and glossy, 
made up a face of surpassing witchery ! And then the figure 
was so finely moulded ; the limbs so firm and exquisitely turned ; 
the muscles well developed, but the feminine softness not destroyed ; 
the bosom arched ; the throat thick, and white, and strong, as an 
alabaster column ; the waist of due proportion, showing the 
sweeping line of the back ; the arm so round and white, with 
hands long and taper ; the polished ancle, elastic as a young 
antelope's ; the small feet, with that beautiful curve beneath the 
«ole, through which the water might have run unstopped ; all 
made up a form which the noblest sculptor might have taken for 
his model, and produced perfection frcnn its likeness. 

Aye ! gaze upon thy fair face, sweet child of beauty ! It 's so 
wonderfully fair, that thou mayst be forgiven if thou feelest even 
that foolish vanity which prides itself on a good over which it has 
no control ! It is hard to possess that thing which our fellows 
prize, and praise, and envy, and not feel that proud self-consciooa- 
ness, that inward satisfaction, which dilates the heart, and lifts 
the step, and genders pride and vanity within the brain ! But 
virtue is hard ; and they only endued with strength can attain the 
'■ sterner of the virtues. Yet there are more than ome ; and youih 
and beauty have their own, though l^ey be not 4liOse belcmging to 
the hero or the saint. 

One last look in her mirror, then our beautiful maiden passes 
ftom the sleeping room, into that which she makes her usual 
home. It is a fitting home ! The coloured roof is supported "by 

* It was a pretty fashion, that of making Athor, the loveliest of the god- 
desses, the presiding deity of the mirror. Sometimes they had Typhoniaa 
figures, the Evil Spirit 



THE EGYPTIAN COQUETTE. 350 

pillars, tapering towards the capitals, which are likewise coloured, 
4is are the leaves of the columns. The capital is the palm leaf, 
^nd the shaft is the stem of the same tree. This is one of the 
most graceful of the Egyptian orders of architecture. The floor 
is covered with square rugs or cushions, made either at Memphis, 
or hrought from Babylon ; the chairs are gilded, and covered with 
blue or scarlet stuff, starred with gold. They are of every con- 
•«eivable shape. Some are double ; others, large indeed and 
iuxurious, but intended only for one h£A>itant. There are low 
stools, both with and without back supports ; some are of foreign 
woods ; and those which are made of the native Egyptian timber 
«re painted, veneered, or gilded, to hide the vulgarity of their 
origin. A frame for embroidery, and a light frame, or case, for 
weaving such pretty articles of taste and luxury, as the narrow 
long scarf or shawl so much used, and the smaU square napkins, 
«tand in the room. Near them are placed vases filled with flowers, 
and stands, where lotus necklaces are hung, imd others, which 
^oonceal cups of water, in which flowers are placed. Wherever the 
oye turns, rt rests upon flowers, artificial or natural. Chapiets, 
necklaces, bouquets, are flung at random through the chamber ; 
^nd the result of these, mingled with the faint perfumes of a dis- 
tant censer, — the whole made fresh by the influx of air from the 
river, — ^pervade the wide chamber. It is a graceful taste, this of 
the Egyptians for flowers ! When they are so much valued as to 
be made articles of tribute to kings, it is easy to imagime how 
Jiighly they must be prized by gentle woman ! 

Our sweet coquette flings herself languidly on one of th« Iwrge 
flcarlet-covered chairs. A footstool is brought for the dainty feet 
to repose on, and flowers are placed near h-^; the embroidery 
frame, and the papyrus basket, filled with wools, and threads, and 
gold and silver cord, are brought close to her hand — ^within reach 
— ^that she may not rise ; ihe monkey is loosed from its strings, 
and suffered to destroy and to disturb, that its antics may please 
the languid heart of this lazy one ; the sleek ichneum(m, bede<^ed 
with a collar of gold, is led into the chamber, where it takes its 
place upon the footstool of its mistress ; and thus surrounded by 
both living and inanimate beauty, the maiden tarns towards thid 
'4ray which holds the morning meal. 

Bread, made <rf fine white flour, sweeteeed witb cakes, honey, 
-or with seeds— dates, both fresh and preserved, grapes and 'Bgs, 
and weak light wine miaeed with water — ^these form her goxni^e 



360 THE EGYPTIAN COQUETTE. 

breakfast. The monkey chatters and screams for the fruit ; the 
ichneumon looks up from its cushion, and, with its stealthy pace;, 
glides upon her lap ; the maiden laughs and scolds, and grants a.t 
once, and offers, in her pretty waywardness, a true and striking 
picture of her social life with men ; for, with many a vow of 
♦*nay" and <*nay,** she suffers herself to be importuned into 
consent, and, chiding at the boldness, she breaks into laughter at 
the success. Harmony is through the spheres ; harmony i& 
the hand of all nature ; harmony is the chain of the spirit and. 
the body : — lower, lower still — harmony, even in the playfiit 
coquetry of a young maid ! Oh ! that is a strange word I it is a 
mystic revelation ! Wherever is existence, there is also tha^ 
unspeakable union between the idea and the fulfilment, the inteiv 
tion and the deed. 

And now flock in others, fair and soft as herself — all covered 
in thin long white veils, which serve but to heighten their charms^ 
by the slight mystery of concealment which they lend. Of the 
dancing girls' accomplishments — of the wares of the goldsmith 
and the merchant — of the relative beauty of their dress and 
adornments — of those dear to them, as dear as is possible to suck 
unthinking souls — of the last new pattern for the scarf — of the 
beautiful stuffs and fashions from foreign lands — of such things 
they talk : perhaps one, older pr graver than the rest, may speak 
of the latest sacrifice, or of the public omens — of the fearful 
sickness of the Holy Bull, or of the ominous trail of the Isiac 
serpent, — ^who is listened to in respectful but unsympathisilig 
silence. Those young gay birds cannot live under the gloom of 
the gigantic temple. Out beneath the cloudless moon — out i^ the 
free fresh air, when not a raindrop sullies the sweet .brow of 
evening, not a thunder-cloud swells over the midnight sky — out, 
even in the burning sunlight, so that it is but with freedom and 
delight ;— aught rather than the still stem silence beneath the 
shadow of the JEdes ! The Faith might suit the philosopher, the 
deep and earnest thinker, for he would find beauty and truth in 
it ; but to these children of womanhood, there seems but scant 
difference between it and annihilation J Well ! it is good J The 
pine, and the oak, and the hardy fir, must be nourished in storm 
and cold and tempest ; the palm and the acacia can only flourish 
when the sun brightens over them, and the warm air of the south 
waves round them. There is a place for all! Why transplant 
when Nature forbids ? The Hermesian philosopher may unravel 



THE EGYPTIAN COQUETTE, 361 

tlie mystery of liis baptism^— lici may ponder on the si^ificance of 
the rites — why the mother, pale and silent, bore him to the temple^ 
where the priest laid him in the coffin-cradle — why water from ihe 
golden cup was thrown over him before he was covered with th© 
red mark of acceptance ; — he may ask of Nature and his own 
soul why, and what means, the double baptism of fire and water-^ 
why, and what means, the strange brute- worship in which hie 
brethren have veiled their homage to the incorporeal Eicton : — 
all these are questions meet for him, but not for these light- 
hearted maids ! And of each stern faith they can but cull the 
brightest portions ; they can but enshrine sweet Athor in their 
mirrors* handles, and worship her and the young Eh6ou — Isis 
and Horus — as the later Greek knelt to Aphrodite and Phcebus in 
the groves of Cytheria and of Delos. 

And time flows on, the fair young girl slowly passes from her 
morning loveliness to the chaste, subdued, and ripened beauty of a 
gentle matron-mother. The laughing eye has become more 
grave ; the thoughtless brow is not so smooth as of yore ; the 
heart, which thrilled with awe at a religion which had not Love 
as its spell-word, has learnt to enframe itself a faith, peculiar and 
proper for its own needs, from this ; the bosom which seemed to 
promise love to all, has chosen one to be its life-enduring mate — 
the bloom of the fresh spring-tide has fled ! And time flows on 
rapidly, rapidly ! The days have passed, and the months and the 
years ; and lo ! old age has followed and claimed possession ; 
and then Death comes in ! And she is dead ! That boimding 
life has ceased — that wild mad joy of being is over ! She is dead — 
that thing of life, and love, and beauty — she has gone for ever 
from our sight ! And what remains ? 

Tread softly! ye are in the chambers of the grave — ^ye breathe 
the air of the tombs ! 

Cold and silent are the guests, but gilded are the chambers, 
and bright with vivid colours, and gay and gorgeous. For what ? 
For the mouldering skeletons in yon gaudy coffins, wrapped in 
perfumed bandages, heavy and stiff with gold and paint ; for the 
sad tenements of a one-time youth and loveliness, now empty and 
deserted, but, to the faithful Egyptian, stiU holding the principle 
of life. 

And this is true. Well to thee, Egypt, that thou knewest this 
truth ! that, by myth or by doctrine, thou couldst teach thy 
children, that death and life were the same t 



362 TESTI1C0NIAI.S Aim TBSfSr. 

Kow i&ve tkee well, our sweet yoong midd ! Thoa, too, hast 
laid thee down to ^e^ — ^to sleep nntil the Future Awakening. 
We have watched thee in thy mommg beauty; we have lored 
ihee in thy noontide splendour ; in old age we have not passed 
thee by ; in death we will not forget thee. Thou hast sprung up 
from the silent tomb ; and, at oar bidding, thou hast liyed oyer 
again one brief day of Ihy happy life. We have looked on thee 
through thy cerecloths, and have clothed the fleshless bones in all 
thdr former grace and youth. This, in fancy, — in the hereafter 
in reality. Sleep, sleep thy dreamless slumber ! Thou hast not 
the stem Onnofre to judge thy waking, and another than Thoth^ 
^all register thy deeds. The Angel of Mercy shall be thine 
assessor t — the G-OD of Love thy judge I Peace to thee. Maid 
of Egypt ! Fear not the day of ihj doom 1 for thy weakness was 
not crime, and thy frivolity was so gentle, that ev^i justice must 
relax to look upon it. Thou passedest through life as a beautiful 
bird ; thou broughtest joy in thy presence.; thou couldst not leave 
sorrow for thy departure. Thou wert lovdy, thou wert beloved 
in the hour of thine existence ; Come ! kt us still give thee the 
same in thy death ! 

Roses for the grave ! Young flowers for the tomb ! Scatter them 
thick and fast ; for Beauty is the undying spirit diat haunts the 
wide universe, and broods, like the arkite dove, over the waste ef 
the grave. And like that dove it will return, bringing with it 
the premise of life and of delight ; for ihe Beautiful is the sole 
thing that camiot die I It is the Life of the Universe ! 



TESTIMONIALS AND TESTS. 
BY PAUL BELL. 

When innocent country folks, somewhat vain-glorious on the 
atrength of their familiarity with << botany and grass," denounce 
London as a hearUess place, in which people do not know their 
next-door neighbours, and modest merit blushes unseen along the 

* ThoUi registers the deeds of the soul in his tablets. 
•^ t There are forty-two in number ; te ua have a litfle IScenesS to the 
Erinnyes, in some of their attribtntes. 



.TESTIMOKIAIiS AVID TESTS. 31^ 

.by-ways, while sopluBtication and iniquity drive coacbes-and^six 
.down Piccadilly, (these being country innocents who do believe in 
,coaches-and-six„ in «pite of all the Broughams which come and 
.go,) they are angry, I must say, not merely at peril of their 
veracity, but also of their reputation, as being able to read. 
To me, it seems impossible to take a walk abroad, or to consult 
a journal, whatsoever its politics, whatsoever its clients, what- 
soever its leaders and its underlings, without being struck by 
the enthusiasms of friendship and the efbsimts of gratitude. 
Seriously, there is no Southcote so outrageously self-complacent 
or secure as to the world's end, who eannot get followers to 
receive her strange sacraments — ^no pill so venomous in its 
power to sever soul from body, without its list of cases as 
long as, and more 'glorious than, those catalogues of accredited 
<$ures which sci€»ice, modest when maturest, simply puts forth ; 
pretending — ^the vulgaf mundane creature ! — to no infallibility. 
And in these warrants, credentials, compliments, (call them what 
you will,) there is fssr more of sincerity, and less of selfishness, 
than the world dreams — ^unless it be, that the root of all 
fanaticism is Self — the idea of a Self that shall prophesy ; of a 
•Self that shall heal ; of a Self that shall overthrow ; and to which 
all prophesying or healing or overthrowing done in others' fashions, 
is offensive and distast^ul. People love to believe— especaally 
be the fact large ^io«^h, sufficiently sweeping, and one which 
^laps in the face established truths — ^and from believing pass on 
to generalise with a delicious contempt of objection. The Heir 
<xf Castle PimplOy who seems to have been actuated by no other 
|>rinciple of life and conversation, than the fear of '' falling as 
the leaves do in October," did well, when in an extremity of 
'^ervescence and fever, and irritability, to ''surprise his stomach*' 
(as my Mrs. Bell drily put it) by cold water, and to give his 
limbs a chance, by brisk exercise up a hill, with only '' a plain 
-'dimier'* at the top. And no wonder that Pimpleton of Castle 
Pimple is grateful, warm in praise of the ccdd element, when he 
&ds that he is now able to sleep without " night-mares in his 
feed," to eat without terrors by way of grace before, and twinges 
by way of disgr&ee, after his meal — ^ik)w that his head has become 
clmir enough to take pleasure in dwelling upon the concerns of 
%he Carbuncle Cottages, or to organise a vigorous resi^»B;ce 
against the branch of Lady Salisbury's pet railway, which was to 
root up his mother's jointure house. He would be no human 



364 TfiSTIttONIALS ASD TESTS, 

Pimple if he did not gush with gratitude. But he has the mis* 
fortune to be connected with the Leanshanks family — spare, 
melancholy, gray-complexioned, feeble people — not one of whom, 
since the days of •* Bluff King Hal,*' was ever known to **be 
carried to bed ; " and who, for the last two hundred years, have 
been lifting up small yoices in admiration of early hours and blue 
milk. And he happeneth to pounce upon Meagre Corner, at the 
very time when Miss Lavinia, the seventh daughter of the house, 
after pining ever since she was born, seems now as resolute as a 
Leanshanks can be, to '' give up the whole affair as a lost case ;" 
in plain English, <* to go out" (for there are departures from life, 
which hardly deserve an appellation more vigorous). Cousin 
Fimpleton was always a kind soul : craving to be lethargic, he 
has become boisterously kind. Something must be done for the 
fading Lavinia; and that in the <' wringing of a sheet." He 
wiU have her off to Umberslade, or Malvern, or Ilkley, with all 
the speed of a cataract ! She is to be wrapped up in wet clouts, 
as she sits in his open carriage on a raw March day ! She is to 
drink a cup of cold water every time she changes horses ; and, 
when they stop for the night, to pass an hour in the rain-tub, ere 
she is dismissed to bed. These strong measures have the result 
which any one, save a Naiad, or Nereid, could have foreseen. 
Ere three weeks are over, poor Miss Lavinia 's monument cuts a 
genteel and woful figure in the churchyard ; and her kind- 
hearted cousin and friend wipes his eyes (execrating them the 
while, that she was let to dip through their fingers, by the 
drenching having commenced at too late a period) and rushes off 
to make amends for the waste of this poor dear '' drop in a 
bucket,*' by a doubly energetic assault on some other ailing 
creature — let us hope with better success, though with no better 
sense ! 

These are the people by aid of whom the Solomons thrive, and 
the Morisons build 'their Gamboge Castles. There is nothing 
they won't swear to ; they will sign every thing. If a thumb 
but has ached, they will vow that they had lost the use of one 
side ! If they were apt to see double ** of afternoons," they will 
print, as a fact, that their " visual organs had, for a considerable 
period, been essentially impaired." They would put their por- 
traits on the ambulating advertisers, which make such an odd 
addition to our London vehicles. What do I say ? — ^they would 
drive a machine themselves, rather than ungratefully, or out of 



^TESTIMONIALS AND TESTS* 365 

false delicacy, hang back from sharing with others facts so in- 
estimable ; a deliverance so precious ! The Faculty may counsel 
caution. Since the days of Job, doctors have been old noodles, 
or worse. They know better. Friends may recal past counsels, warn- 
ings, encouragements, <Sz;c., &c., and the like. Friends lie ; they 
always do. And every one (save themselves and the projectors of 
the nostrum elect) is leagued to keep the human race in the dark; 
find sickly, and wound round with absurd prejudices, for purposes, 
the wickedness of which lies on the surface ! 

Stated as above, can anything seem much more absurd than 
gratitude running a-muck — than enthusiasm knocking down the 
feeble, by way of helping them to hold themselves up ? Yet I 
appeal to those who have no particular matter in hand of their 
own, to say whether the humour in which testimonials are often- 
times given — when given voluntarily — is caricatured in my 
epecimen Figure. J^h ! long live Faith ! Long live Earnestness ! 
Long live sympathy ! but long live, too, permission for the by- 
stander to demand a reason for these- — ^to ask what manner of 
man it is that bloweth his trumpet so loudly, without said by- 
stander being branded as infidel, or put to do penance in the 
broad sheet, as irreverent, or lashed by brute sarcasm (there is a 
brute sarcasm no less than a brute force and a brute folly) as 
bigoted. 

But would that these were the only testimonials going !— 
Yanity is a noxious thing. A Duke who fancies he has a taste in 
sculpture, and picks out a stone-cutter for his protege, may dis* 
figure London with a Monster on an Arch, past the power of any 
Press earthquake to dislodge. A fine lady who believes in the 
philanthropic clairvoyance of a Mademoiselle iPelicite, may inspire 
her coterie of fine Ladies with curious assurances, that the same 
Parisian demoiselle is to cure them of the need of employing 
rouge, or hair-dye, or any other material for the making-up of 
Evening Youth and Candle-light Beauty. And a Monster, as has 
been saidj or a false colour given to several silly women, may 
come of it, past all hope of redress or cure : to the vexation of 
all touchy and honest persons. But think of the testimonials 
which are not given in good faith ! — Think of the rubbishy 
Statues, and the rubbishy French-women, authenticated "for a 
consideration" — the Public not choosing, nor desiring, even to 
examine ! 

Consider — to dwell upon an impoi-tant topic, as Mr. Carlyle will 



366: iaBSTIMO]SUt.S ANI> TESTS. 

bear me out in styling it, — to wit, the Clotlies QnoBtam -e<»slder 
ye, the certificates puMished by the Adr^rtisiDg Tailors — the- 
letters from customers no less augvat than the personages xnea^ 
tiooed in the Irish ballad, — to wit, 



^ The fiunous Duchess of Bayariay^ 
And Dido the A&ican Queen ; 

which the proprietors ai the Autumn Impervious Coblentz^ and the^ 
Winter Hyperborean Oapot — the Summer Dust-Inimical Overalls,, 
and the Spring ** Deeds-not- Words " Paletot have to show. One 
Crowned Head, believed to He imder considerable peril from 
IHuminati, Carbonari, B.ight-Diviners, or Wrong-Defenders, cannot 
rest on its pillow, till '* Two of the same pattern as the last — (m&; 
with mother-of-pearl buttons, for the Chateau ** — have been " for- 
warded by the very earliest c^portunity ! " — Her Peninsular Ka- 
jesty writes, in no less urgent an agony, ** For a Habit of the 
Patent Superfine Blue Steam-pressed Camlomere,*' signing her- 
self *^ Isabella'* in a scrawl which you can read from the t<^. 
of an ommbus. Jenny Land must have *^ A Pt^tent Seal Paiv 
Dessus " (at least so the elderly gentlemen who fetched her from 
Vienna writes to Messrs. Stickle ii Snow) on the spot, ** or she is 
unable to contemplate a tour of our cold Eoglish Provinces^ hew- 
soever solicited to do so, at the instance of His Grace the Lord 
Bishop of — — .** Two years ago, I should have put implicit 
trust in all these records of Eoyal anxiety and haste to purchase..' 
Alas, sir, the bloom has been taken off my confidence ! or, as my 
Lame Boy impudently puts it (to vex me, because I cannot bear 
slang), I have ceased to be downy. We have made acquaintance 
with a Testimonial Writer : — ^the very person who returned thanks 
for the Queen of Madagascar, when the New Patent Parasol was 
not sent her : — and who described, touchingly, the tears which had 
come into the eyes of the Monarch of Java or Japan ('tis all the 
same !) when the Five-Guinea Packet of Mellifluous Amberated 
Soap' reached him ! — He it was who indited that letter ** To a 
Lady in the Country,'* beginning: ** You are sensible^ dearest- 
JSmma, that ray greatest pleasure is to contribute pleasing facts ■. 
for your , amusement. Within the last few years my hair has 
entirely turned of a sickly grey 9*^ &c. &c. — He devised the 
Romance of •* The Blue Morocco Pocket-Bpoji:, with a silver ela&p, . 
engraved, with the Austrian coronet, a shield, and motto: ocua'-. 
taining correjsponAence in cipher — which was taken from its owa^r^ 



xsaxiifONiixs ASj> zssTS. 367 

ifliile Btanding in a crowd in Newgate Street* to see the Buke of 
Wellington come out of the warero<H&s of Messrs. Neate ^. 
Cleanly, niakers of the Alpaca Protected Gaiters, (Please ccpy 
the address. No, 500)." Mj boj might have made a handscnofi^ 
liyiDg would he have associated himself with Mr. Slum, hj under- 
taking '' the Pictorial department ;*' but he declined, declaring — : 
the rogue ! — ^that he had no testimonials to bring forward war- 
nmting him qualified for the task ! 

To turn to another branch of the subject, the use of testimonkJa 
in what may be called social transactions, is yet more unblushing 
and precious than the fine language which accredits the wondera 
of Tailordom, as reigned over by Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob, or 
Madame Spinks' pleasing inyentien for annihilating, not time, Imt/ 
(dd age, and making ** Lorers happy '' by eradicating Grey Hairs* 
— ^In aU the nayigations of courtship, for instance, how comical 
are the things ''answered for," and the perscms who answer! 
Think of the references adduced by The Germui Baron, seven 
feet one, who, '' actuated by no mereenary motives, and being of 
a domestic disposition," adyertises for some congenial soul having 
300/. to 400/. a year at her uncontrolled disposal, whom ** it will 
be the study of his future life to cherish with tenderness! " The 
German Baron's B^ference is an inch taller tiian himself — a man 
who has seen service, with a venerable white m&ustache : and who 
says little, but that little to the purpose : aware that the reserve 
of English Ladies demands reserve, and honourably anxious to 
avoid the possibility of disappointm«it> by stating facts in too rose^* 
coloured a fashion. 

I once knew some most droll cases of reference, in a person fur 
less magnificent (and, let me whisper, less of an adventiu*er) than 
my advertising Baron: but who, like him, was ''girdling the. 
earth " in quest of a congenial soul. — How such an elderly, bashful 
person as Mr. Timothy Deedes ever wrought himself into the idea 
that matrimony was expected from him, passes my comprehension ; 
but the efbrts he made to fulfil that expectation, w^e only lesa 
signal and unwearied than those of Old Scrawdon himself. He 
was the man, who^ after a hot ehace of Miss Drury the. clothier's 
daughter, announced " That he had been on the point of being 
married to her, only she refused him! " — He it was, who, before 
committing himself to Mrs. Harbottle, a widow who was known to 
have " a pretty fortune at her own disposal," consulted the Parish 
Register to ascertain what was th^ age <3f the gentlewoman; whether 



368 TfiSTDCOKIALS AND TESTS. 

she was indeed, as slanderers said, by ten summers his senior. Bat 
the passage I am now particularly remembering was his setting 
forth to lay siege to Miss Meridew, in company with his cousin. 
Repeated refusals, it would almost seem, had made 'him self- 
mistrustful : inspired him with the uneasy feeling of one who is 
looked upon as a false pretender t and whose very inches, even, 
ought to be vouched for : seeing that there are some persons, who, 
like Monsieur Duprez the French singer, and Mr. Flamely the 
English novelist, wear heels within their boots ! — ^It was needful 
— sJas ! this had sad experience taught him — ^to woo his Queen of 
Hearts ** by the card ! " — to have his heels warranted ! 

Now, it did not make the matter easier, that Miss Meridew 
was one of those persons who "hear, see, and say nothing," 
called by their friends, " persons of good judgment,'* ** persons of 
high principle," and, Heaven knows how many other high-flown 
names ; — but, by less interested observers, known to be vacant, 
dogged, and suspicious, with and without Cause. I only know one 
species of female more impracticable : the candid woman of quick 
feelings ; who is hurt before you speak, and hurt after you have 
spoken ; who owns "to expressing herself warmly," and thinks 
Reason was brought into the world, by way of insult to common 
Humanity ! And even she, I am inclined to think, may be got 
the better of, by a person more candid and quicker than she is, — 
provided he owns the advantage in point of lungs ! 

Well — when Mr. Deedes set forth to woo Miss Meridew, lie 
thought it due to himself, to provide an authentication for all he 
might state, in the person of a relative, older, drier, stouter, more 
substantial than himself— one of those worthies who inspires you 
with a confidence that he were best let alone ! The Lady was by 
herself, working with her usual slow industry, at something which 
could be neither useful nor ornamental ;^-on their entrance, turning 
and facing the suitor and his Referee, with a gaze more stupid 
than searching, yet none the less hard to meet, therefore. Down 
sate Mr. Deedes, (he had to invite himself to take a chair)^ — down 
sate the Referee : and the matter was entered upon, in dead and 
unassenting silence on the part of the Lady. 

"Ma'am," began Mr* Timothy, " I have a comfortable, unin- 
cumbered little property, which brings me in, — I should say — a 
clear ^ye hundred a year ; — have not I, Cousin ? " 

"Yes, Cousin." 

No reply on the part <rf Miss Meridew* 



TESTIMONIALS AN'D TESTS. 36^ 

** And I have a house, No. 37, Halcyon Row — ^with good base- 
, ment st^ — and water laid on to the top. Have I not, Cousin ? ** 
' " Yes, Cousin." 

Miss Meridew bit the knot off her thread ; and Strephon had 
. to begin anew. 

** And, Ma'am, I am very anxious to assure you, that since I 
was a child, I hare been always spoken of as obliging, considerate, 
and as fond of the Ladies' company, as a religious and moral 
member of society ought to be." Is it not so. Cousin 1 '* 

"Yes, Cousin." 

" Those are mice in the wainscot, gentlemen, that you hear,"* 
observed Miss Meridew. 

"F««, Cousin.*^ — Even those dull people were shaken by at. 
testimonial so grotesque and gratuitous. Both the Strephon and' 
the Amanda broke into a fit of laughter, at the misplaced reply of 
Mr. Alured Deedes. There was no resuming ** the tender 
subject," that day: — and before that day fortnight. Miss Meridew 
had bestowed her virtues and her possessions, upon the Reverend 

Ozias Cockle ! — ** So endeth a wooing ! " 

* « * mm » * 

There is another sort of testimonial of a yet more peculiar 
quality than the above, worth including in this list of Curiosities 
•of Friendship. An inhabitant of the moon^ aware of the very 
rainy climate of this " terrestrial Ball," or, in other words, of 
the quantity of tears, which must fall thereon, be the season ever 
80 propitious — ^would conceive himself addressed as a Marine, and 
not a lunar visitant, were he told that there exists among us a- 
class of persons whose delight it is to conceive themselves mal- 
treated and evil spoken of. Yet so it is: there are some wha 
keep themselves in a. fever of complacency by forgiving imaginary 

f injuries. They know that the basest of motives are imputed to 

them, but, thank God ! they can bear that They are glad to 
find persons so good, simple, and credulous, as to believe that 
themselves have no enemies : and who try to persuade them of 
the same. They wish they did not know better ! Somebody is 
always talking them over behind their backs — or was, before they 
came into the room ! Before they do a given thing, they are 

[ sure that they will be misjudged for doing it. • They were brought 

into this world, to suffer calunmy — to waste affection — to abido 
ingratitude. **It was sung to them in their cradles." They 
should be insane to expect any enjoyment, or honest construction I 

NO. XXXIV — VOL. TI. B B 



I 



370 TESTIMONIALS AND TESTS. 

"People are bo ill-natured,*' used dear Lady to mtirmur, 

hanging her head, the while, like a shepherdess. — " They say, 
that Sydney Smith and I, wrote * Cecil' '* And I am told (not 
having had the honour. Sir, to know the Lady, myself) that she 
did look teased and "put out," hy this sad littie dream. We 
had a gentlewomen of the same famUy, but more meek — a back 
quality, who used to keep Hedeyon Bow, in a perpetual stir, by 
tiie imagined ill-usage she had to parry, making a round &om 
house to house, in quest of flatteries and oontradictions to reports 
which no one had circulated ; and exasperating my up-right, down- 
right, angry Mrs. Bell, — ^till I used to think the latter would 
become demented, if one calamity more oTertook Miss Gobs^. 
Nerer did irreproachable virgin suggest the same number of pee- 
eadilloes, which she could only have, by miracle, committed. She 
had been talked about, with Mr. Vavasour ; she had been accused 
of starving her maid-of-all-work ; and of poisoning Mrs. Stagg's 
four peacocks, (a slight crime, if true : since tibose birds used to 
screech all night, to the detriment and distress of the Row). She 
had sent anonymous letters to three decided Oalvinists. She had 
threatened Rowley, the inarticulate old sexton and parish clerk, 
with the loss of his place. " Did Mrs. Bell believe she was 
capable of such wicked doings ? '* was the invariable conclusion. 
The last piece of monstrous self-accusation, however, happily closed 
our doors against the poor, morbid creatine. "What do you 
think they are saying of me, now, dear Tifrs. Bell ? " burst she 
in, one day, howling and mopping her eyes. "What do you 
think they say now ? — that I drink ! Did you ever hear such 
cruelty ? such wickedness ? — Do you believe it ? " 

" Yes, Ma'am, and worse," was my helpmate's impatient 
answer. Up bounced Miss Gosse. She was seen within our gates 
no more. Turn such a person's play into reality: and, in ninety- 
nine eases out of a hundred, you mdke an enemy for life, by extin- 
guishing them ! 

The subject widens upon me as I proceed — spreading out into 
the conviction that there is no fact for which you cannot find an 
insincere andy stranger 'still, a sincere witness. Think of the 
Moninnent, on which the inheritance of an important estate 
depended — to the existence of which, in a certain Church, within 
the memory of man, a nuniber of worshipful parishioners swore, in 
a well-known trial — ^wbilst as many, equally worshipful, swore as 
certainly to the fact of such a thing never having existed. Think 



i<IXERABT JNTERGHANQfi. 371 

<«£ matters asserted on the hustings ! — prored bj the plump and 
plain tcfstimonial of bjratanders. Think (as we are there ! ) of 
Tests proposed and accepted. Eecollect the delicious traditions 
•only waiting the call of Anl^quarians with regard to any obscure 
passage-^and how A shall cap B's impression till C gets a fact, 
which he retaileth unblushingly : and J) goes the length of chal- 
ienging Bcnitiny-wkereupon E eiiters into an inquiry ! &e., &c. 
f&eflect how a whimsical idea, referred to twice or thrice, as a 
^ pleasant freak of imagination, takes that form and consistency, 
which prepares you for referring to it a fourth time as something 
** you haye heard," if not a reality which has passed within the 
sphere of your own knowledge I — And the end will be, if not a 
mistrust of the testimonials which others command, a reserre in 
granting them to others — a determination, not to rush out with 
something which 7»ai^ be true — ^by way of producing an effect, or 
eteengthening a cause : — ^but to let no wish to serve, persuade, 
influence, or other, immediate object, blind you to the dry truth, 
ihat the Testimonial in which Exaggeration has aught to do, 
injures three persons — ^the party recommended, who is encouraged 
to refrain from progress ; the party without testifying recom- 
menders, who is unfairly neglected ; and the party who testifies— 
.to the damage of his discrimination^-'-»self-respecLt, and integrity ! 



LITERARY INTERCHANaE. 

It would be a curious, inquiry that, which would endeavour to 
ascertain the circumstances which obtain celebrity for a writer 
beyond the limits of his own country. Some of our greatest 
English authors are perfectly unknown in Germany and France, 
and not a few of the noblest literary geniuses that France and 
Germany have produced have not, yet reached England even by 
name. On the other hand, how many English scribblers whom 
the English themselves scarcely deign to read have a continental 
reputation ! And how many French and German scribblers who 
are almost forgotten in their native land, have a popularity wider 
and far more fulminating than that which some of our best authors 
enjoy, or are ever likely to acquire. Fame is, of all human 

bb2 



372 LITERART INTERGHAKOE. 

caprices, the most capricious. Sometimes the eccentricitj tha^ 
condemns an author to ohscuritj and contempt in his own countryv. 
giyes him glory somewhere else. Sometimes the hreadth of heart 
and the catholicity of spirit, which make a writer a mystery ta 
his nation, a mystery not to be revered but to be laughed a€, 
make him a miracle to other nations, a miracle which they feel- 
inclined to worship all the more enthusiastically from the yefy 
distance of the scene where it has appeared. It is strange ala(^ 
to see some worthy wight, who in his day was something more 
than a notoriety, but who for half-a-century has simply been 
known as one of the great unread, spoken of by foreign critics^ 
as if he were as alive in the memory and the heart of Humanity^ 
as Cervantes, or Ariosto, or Shakspeare. Thus, for instance,. 
Yillemain, an elegant and tasteful, often eloquent writer, thougb 
not remarkable for grasp or perspicacity as a thinker, and who, 
some fifteen or twenty years ago, was as celebrated as a lecturer 
on literature as Guizot on history, and Cousin on philosophy, 
devotes as much of serious attention and of conscientious analysis 
to Richardson the novelist as any English Review would think it 
proper to bestow on Walter Scott. Occasionally an author secures 
a European audience for the whole of his productions, however 
numerous, through having tickled their ear by some early produc- 
tion, trifling and tedious it may be in itself, but which flattered or 
echoed some temporary foible of the age. Would " Faust," and 
** Wilhelm Meister " be considered as such marvellous books, or 
would Goethe the Epicurean be viewed as so admirable a poet, so 
noble a man, if he had not when young arrested the notice of 
mankind by his sentimental "Werther?" Because one of 
Goethe's boyish works was preposterously overrated, it has been 
thought a duty as preposterously to overrate all the rest. Some 
of the best authors cannot be naturalised in foreign literature^. 
Barrow and Jeremy Taylor will always remain exclusively English. 
The former has a weight of thought, and an exhaustiveness which 
we look for in vain in any other preacher ; but though often 
eloquent he has no artistic graces of style. His grand massive- 
ness of solid sense unfits him for Germany, his want of rhetorical 
skill unfits him for France. Jeremy Taylor was not a remarkable 
thinker ; neither can he properly be called an orator ; he was a 
poet in prose, and perhaps as such, unsurpassed. Now poets in 
prose are peculiarly English ; other nations offer nothing precisely 
similar. The very circumstance, therefore, which renders the 



ItTEBART INTERCHANGE. 373 

^ame of Jeremy Taylor a hallowed name in England, prevents 
him from being naturalised in the literatures of other lands. 
Montaigne is altogether French ; translate him into another lan- 
guage, you strip him of his quaint but picturesque and forcible 
style, and take from him half of his beauty and strength. There 
are authors who are very translateable, who are yet very inadapt- 
able. Thus, though Montaigne was bom fifty years after Rabelais, 
the style of Eabelais has much more flow and finish, is really a 
more modern style ; yet the subjects which Eabelais chose, and 
their mode of treatment, render his works unsuitable for any 
atmosphere but France. In general it may be said, that the 
literary material that . can moM easily find its home everywhere, 
is French prose, chiefly by reason of the social universality of the 
French intellect, but also through the colloquial power of the 
French language, which makes it, from its friendly and familiar 
aspect, welcome, all the world over. Thus, Voltaire's ** Charles 
the Twelfth " is as much a household book in England as ever it 
has been in France. There are works which from their intense 
nationality cannot be relished in translation, though easily enough 
translated. The peculiarities belonging to the style of Junius 
can be rendered into another language without much loss of 
pwigeney, fervour, or energy. But Junius possesses scarcely any 
interest, except to ^hose Englishmen who are familiar with the 
laaBtory of England seventy or eighty years ago, not only in its 
greatest events, but in its minutest gossip and most trifling scandal. 
To any foreigner, therefore, except perhaps a ponderous gluttonous 
German mind aspiring to know all, both in the universe and out 
of it, Junius must be utterly without attraction. The ** Provincial 
Letters " of Pascal are nearly in the same predicament. What 
care the majority of English readers for the squabbles -of Jesuits 
and Jansenists two hundred years ago? In the ecclesiastical 
history and in the national recollections of the French, however, 
those disputes have an indestructible vitality. The only persons 
in England to whom *• The Provincial Letters *' can have any charm, 
are ripe scholars, who would prefer reading them in the original. 
The productions of some authors have scarcely any other merit 
than that of style. All such it is folly to translate. La Fontaine 
had the genius, the rare genius for a poet, of being archly and 
aboundingly natural. His style is perfect ; but his productions 
have no merit beyond the style. Hence he is the most tedious or 
the most pleasing of writers, according to the subject that chance 



374' LITEBABY ISTEBGHAK6S; 

tlirew in his way. He had no creative strength. All his author-' 
craft consisted solely in indolently pouring out his good humour on • 
topics that came of their own accord before him. To translate hink. 
is, therefore, to crush all the living breath and the warm blood out 
of him. The Italians lose immensely in translation, so much of the 
beauty of every Italian book consisting in the delicious music of the- • 
Italian language itself. Occasionally the facility with which, an : 
author's works are transferred into another tongue, their literary ■ 
value unimpaired, arises from their defects of style; Sismondi,. 
with substantial merit as a writer, is exceedingly heavy and mono^ 
tonous in style. His productions, wanting the usual French variety 
and vivacity, seem to have something of a becomingness, dignity,, 
and force in their English dress which are not obvious in the 
original. Certain authors would have written with more effect in 
another language, than they did in their own. Wieland, fanciful, 
witty, epicurean, would have found French much more suitable for 
tho expression of his ideas than German ; and Lessing, bold» . 
earnest, direct, and energetic, could have slashed more rapidly and 
killingly into the heart of things if pithy English instead of 
unwieldy German had been his weapon. Languages have a fitness- • 
or unfitness for rendering other languages. German gives best • 
the epic and dramatic poetry of the Greeks ; It^Jian, Greek lyrie^ - 
poetry; French, Greek eloquence; English^ Greek history and 
philosophy. For the translation both of Latin poetry and LaUn 
prose, we know no language equal to the English. Italian poetry 
loses least in English ; Italian prose, least in French. The French 
cannot translate poetry ; whatever its characteristics in the original,, 
they convert it into pedantic rhetoric. Shakspeare, in the hands- • 
of Ducis, becomes a declaimer. When the French translate^' 
poetry, they are compelled to give it in prose in order to preserve • 
somewhat of its texture and spirit. The prose of most languages, 
is more rhetorical than the poetry. French poetry has the pecu- 
liarity of being more rhetorical than French prose. Hence it is. 
as difficult to translate French poetry, as it is for the French to\ 
translate the poetry of other nations. For rhetoric supposes 
amplification, and translated rhetoric implies still farther ampU^- 
fication, in the cumbrousness of which all force and beauty •- 
evaporate. Most German prose works are improved by a trans*- 
lation into French. The Germans cannot write^{»x)sei AsFreneh . 
prose is better than all other prose, German is. worse. Comparej- 
Madame de StaeFs book on Germany with M^nzel's on German . 



LITERABY INTEBCHANGE. 375' 

Literature, which is a very favourable specimen of German prose, 
and the difference will at once be visible. Strange as it may seem,, 
however, it is the imperfections of German prose which make 
German thinking appear so much more subtle and profound than 
it is. The calf seems an elephant when seen through the mist ; 
and the common-places of the Germans often appear prodigious 
discoveries, because floating in a haze of cloudy words. France 
has produced as great, if not greater, thinkers than Germany. 
But they often look shallow, simply because they are so marvel- 
lously clear ; and, in the same way as, seen through the cloudless 
atmosphere of Egypt, the pyramids look smaller than they are. 
Perhaps, therefore, a German metaphysical work, when translated 
into French, loses rather than gains. By being improved in style, 
by being rendered clearer, it is shorn of all its transcendentalism ; 
and what in the original astounded as a mystery, disgusts in the 
translation as a paltry mystification. Books of more substantial 
merit, however, especially the chief historical productions, gain by 
translation from German into French ; for they retain all their 
essential qualities, while acquiring rapidity of movement, senten- 
tiousness, and force. 

Hitherto Literary Interchange, of which translation is only one 
of the forms, has been an affair of scholars. One of the best 
effects of free commerce will be, to make it an affair of nations. 
And as it is the articles of luxmy, often pernicious, that have 
chiefly passed from country to country, to the exclusion of the 
corn that feeds and strengthens man, so it is chiefly the pruriences, 
the frivolities, the vulgarities of literature that have passed from 
one language into another. As, also, corn will henceforth be the 
leading article of commerce, we may rationally anticipate that 
nations, brought into more wise and loving intercourse with each 
other by the pressure of universal physical needs, will, through, 
the more complete appreciation and sympathy thus produced, be 
disposed to exchange only that which is best in their literatures. 
The effect of this on tolerance and civilisation will be prodigious 
and blissful ; but it will also potently and beneficially transform 
the chief literatures of the world. It will teach the English to 
generalise, and to see the philosophic links of many isolated 
details ; it will teach the French to confirm and to correct their 
generalisation by facts ; it will teach the Germans that writing is 
an art like any other, — that pith, clearness, variety, and brevity 
are the four grand requisites of good writing, — that prolixity is 



376 NEW BOOKS. 

imbecility, and cloudiness quackery, — ^that tlie fiubtlest thinkers 
that ever lived, the Greeks, were likewise the best writers, — and 
that mental incapacity is equivalent to moral defect both in iudi- 
viduals and nations. 



Neb) iSoo&j^i* 



Mauprat. By George Sand. Translated by Matilda M. Hays. Forming 
Parts V. and VI. of the Works of Sand. 16mo. E. Churton. 

We have selected this work, from the volumes already translated by 
Miss Hays, for a more extended analysis and criticism, because it seems 
to us to develop the strength and power of the original writer more than 
any work of hers that we have yet perused. Brevity is the soul of wit, 
but extension is the life of analysis, and if w^e trespass upon the reader's 
time, and may be, patience, at more than our usual rate, it is because 
the productions of this gifted author are fraught with many varied 
excellencies. They have the purport of an enlightened philosophy and 
an energetic politics ; they illustrate human character with unusual force; 
they are constructed with peculiar grace, and written with a fine poetic 
feeling. Such being the case, it is our earnest duty to endeavour to 
help to disseminate them, and to aid a cause taken up by the translator 
and the bookseller, from a higher feeling than any mercenary reward. 

The monstrous legends circulated as to George Sand, are beginning to 
fail of effect in this country, and some faint notions of her true excel- 
lence to take their place. Still there are but too many who confound 
her vdth the vilest writers, and think that she whose every sentence is 
an endeavour to refine the appetites, writes but to stimulate them to an 
inordinate indulgence. Pure, lofty, and spirituel, she sees in some of 
the formal conventions of society the strongest inducements to the 
debasements of the nobler parts of our nature. "Custom hath so 
brazed " many of our institutions, that the spirit of their ritual having 
evaporated, it becomes necessary to revise the form. With the marriage 
of true hearts she would not interfere ; but thinks to sanctify the bonds 
and connexion of two creatures, more is necessary than a parchment 
license sold only for the sake of the fee, and a marriage ceremony, 
which is but too often only a compendious conveyance of property. 
She sees no difference, except in price, between the conduct of the 
woman who sells her body for one guinea or ten thousand. The formal 
compliances with a literal honesty, are not, to her mind, a manifesta- 
tion of the natural rectitude and honour of a true spirit. Nor will the 
finest breeding, nor the choicest manners, supply the place of that 



NEW BOOKS. 377 

genuine benevolence of soul from which they originally arose. She is, 
in fact, a great Restorer; she seeks io arouse, in a society that is biased 
with forms, a spiritual life. Modem civilised society, when it is what 
18 called perfected, is a great heap of pretence where the passions have 
no play, the emotions a false direction, and the imagination is sought 
to be suppressed. From this cadaverous existence strong spirits escape ; 
some by crimes, some by talents. Some taking the direction of science, 
art, literature, or politics, incur the stigma, but not the avengement 
of such society. Others, guided by sensualities and passions, are 
plunged into courses of violence or craft, and while truly indicating the 
dictates of nature, sin, and are sinned against, most brutally. Such 
things cannot be, and idly pass meditative energetic spirits like George 
Sand : she sees tl^e evil, deplores, and would amend it. She is a woman, 
and no weapon is left her but the pen. £thical dissertation, metaphy- 
sical disquisitions, would not attract the beings she seeks to interest 
or subdue. She shows, as in a glass, these things, and by a fictitious 
narrative as regards the circumstances, she draws a true picture that 
pourtrays humaii nature as it is. By her ethical power she proves 
it error ; by her metaphysical, she analyses the causes ; by" her literary 
art she combines and illustrates these powers; and by her spiritual 
and poetic temperament she gives to the production a charm that 
amuses, thrills, and urges on the reader who is drawn within the 
compass of her power. 

To do all this is the office of a great writer ; how seldom it is fulfilled, 
the few works of fiction that survive their birth will prove. Amidst 
the multitudinous ocean of literature, how few and isolated are the 
beacons that maintain their position.. Daily inroads are making on 
those pronounced to be the most firmly fixed ; and the stars of the 
heavens, worlds though they be, are as legion in comparison to those 
few authors, out of countless generations, who can ^n the constant 
attention of mankind. 

To write with a purpose, is now, with a thoughtless class, a term of 
reproach j but without such purpose as we have intimated, the author 
will very rapidly outlive the man. Life is a serious matter, and he who 
only developes the small portion of his faculties and being designed to 
raise or enjoy laughter, knows little of existence, and miakes a sensation 
but for a moment. To be incapable of laughter is a gross deficiency ; 
to be always indulging in it is a tiresome buffoonery. Sand, like all truly 
great writers, is mistress of the passions, and kindles the emotions in 
tiieir full circle. 

Mauprat combines, in our opinion, all the excellencies of which we 
have spoken. In its outer form, the charm of the style and the interest 
of the narrative is sufficient for the dullest reader. Internally, we 
detect an allegorical meaning which relates to more general and abstract 
matters. In the hero we have the savage reclaimed by kindness, and 
see, most exquisitely shadowed forth, 3ie brute gradually awakened 
to an heroic existence. In Edmee, the female heroine, we have the 



378 NSW BOOKS* 

embodiment of intellect ands^isibility, periiaps indicative of the future 
condition of humanity when refined by juster laws and circumstances* 
In M. Hub^ we have a symbol of the past mind, with all its hereditary 
prejudices and some of its better superstitions. In Patience, a creature- 
nobly gifted, who has struggled to knowledge of the profoundest kind 
by tne sheer dint of his own powers. Never were noble ideas better 
realised. Never have we found a completer, finer notion, of literaiy 
art as exemplified in fiction : truly every line proves our theory, that a 
great work of the imagination is produced by "realising a great ideality.'* 
The authoress has determined to illustrate these wonderful processes,^ 
and has realized them with such vigour, delicacy, and completeness, 
that her work reads like a literal narrative of actual circumstances. 
. The characterization, which is wonderful, is not the only merit : the- 
language and sentiments are equally felicitous. The story, as we have 
said, is the reclamation, or rather the development, of tbe soul of a 
young savage, Mauprat, brought up with bandits of the most ferocious 
kind, who, by the uncouth passion he has for £dmee is gradually ai^ 
truly civilised into a noble human creature. The delicate delineation 
by which this process is made manifest can only be conceived by 
an attentive perusal of the book. To show that we are not creating 
a theory, we make the following scraps of extract : — 

^'I knew something of the remarkable history of this old man ; but I had 
always had a lively wish to learn the details, and above all to hear them frank 
himself. His strange destiny was a philosophical problem that I desired to 
solve ; thus I examined his features, his manners, and his household, witb 
peculiar interest. • ♦ * 

*' Here is a grave question to be resolved : ^ Are there unconquerable^ 
propensities within us, and can education only modify, or altogether destroy 
them?' For myself I dare not give judgment upon it; I am ndther a. 
metaphysician, a psychologist, nor a philosopher ; but I have had terrible 
experiences in my life. ♦ * ♦ 

« I was already violent, but with a violence sombre and concentrated 5 
blind and brutal in my anger ; apprehensive to cowardice at the approach of 
danger, but bold to folly when once engaged in it, I was at the same time- 
timid and brave through the love of fife. I was- rebeUioasly obstinate ; and. 
my mother was the only one who could succeed in subduing me ; and without 
reasoning upon the matter, for my intellect was very late in its development^. 
I obeyed her as by a sort of magnetic necessity. Under this influence, which 
I well remember, and of one other woman to whose power I submitted later- 
in life, there was that within me which led to good. But I lost my mother/ 
before she could give me any lasting impressions ; and, when I was trans- 
planted to Roche-Mauprat, I could only feel for the wickedness committed 
there, an instinctive repugnance, feeble enough perhaps, if fear had not beea- 
mingled with it. 

'* But I thaok Heaven from the bottom of my heart, for the bad treatmeB^ 
with which I was overwhelmed ; and above all, for the hatred my uncle JeAn » 
conceived against me. My misfortunes pneswved me from indifference ta> 
vice, and my sufferings induced me to abhor those who committed it" 



NSW BOOKS. 379 

Sarely the writer of these p^ietrating linee will never again be 
accused of promoting vice by her writings. The following and other 
passages will show that Sand's object is to reveal the power of circum- 
stances and institutions over character ; and this she does by contrast- 
ing eras of time, as well as by difference of existing relations : — 

^ You may well imagine that brought up -within the walls of Roche-Mauprat, 
and living in a state of perpetual siege, my ideas were absolutely those which - 
a man-at-anns would have entertained in the times of feudal barbarism* 
l%at which out of our dwelling, was called by other men, assassination, 
pfllage, and torture, I had been taught to call combat, conquest, and sub- 
mission. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

** I know not whether I was sufficiently susceptible to a feeling of good, to 
be inspired by them with pity for the victims ; but it is certain I experienced 
the sentiment of selfish commiseration which is part of our very nature ; and 
T^ich, brought to perfection and ennobled, among civilised men has become 
charity. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

'^I will make no excuses about it; you see before you a man who haa 
followed the profession of a bandit. It is a thought ^ieh leaves me no more 
remorse than a soldier feels for having made a campaign imder the orders of 
his general I believed myself still living in the middle ages. The strength 
and wisdom of the established laws, were, for me, but words without meaning.'* 

• The following is inserted as a note, by Sand, to justify herself with 
laying the story in so late a time — ^just before the French Revolution : — 

IF ((The Lord of Pleumartin has left behind him in the province remem- 
brances which will preserve the story of Mauprat from all reproach of 
exaggeration. The pen refuses to trace the ferocious obscenities and the 
refinements of torture, which signaHsed the life of this madman ; and which 
will perpetuate the traditions of feudal brigandism in Berry, until the last 
days of the ancient monarchy. His castle was besieged, and, after an 
obstinate resistance, he was taken and hanged. Many persons still livings 
and of no very advanced age, can remember this monster." 

. Of the beautiful and exquisite pictures of scenery : of the fine bursts 
of eloquence : of the gentle and sweet philosophy : of the pas^onate 
and pathetic scenes in this beautiful little novel, we can give the reader 
no idea. He must read it for himself — with an earnest desire to draw 
out of it all the multiplied meanings with which it is impregnated. 
The following will give some idea of the peasant philosopher, who has 
struggled, unaided, to an intellectual day : — 

PT *' ' Before I knew the poets,' he said^ in his latter years, ^ I was like a man 
in whom a sense is wanting. I saw clearly that this sense was necessary, 
i^oe so moBLy things solicited its exercise. I walked alone through the nighty 
in unrest; asking why I could not sleep, why I had so much pleasure in gazing 
at the stars, which I could not draw down to me in this contemplation ; why 
my heart suddenly beat with joy at the sight of certain colours, or grew sad 
to tears at certain sounds. But I quickly consoled myself in the assunmoe 
that my folly was sweet, and would rather have ceased to exist than have 
giyen it up. Now it sidBoes me to know that the same things have been 



380 KEW BOOKS. 

thought beaatifiil in all times, and by all intelligent men— to understand 
vhat they are, and in what they are useful to mankind. I rejoice in the 
thought that there is no flower, no cloud, no breath of air, which has not 
courts the attention, and moved the heart of other men, even to the receiving 
^ name respected among all people. Since I have learned that it is permitted 
to man, without degradation to his intellect, to people the universe and to 
explain it in his dreams, I live entirely in the contemplation of that universe ; 
and 'When the sight of social miseries and crimes breaks my heart and oTer- 
tnms my reason, I throw myself into my dreams ; I say to myself, tliat, since 
all men have agreed in loving the works of God, so they will some day agree 
in loving one another. I imagine that, firom father to son, education advaoieea 
to perfection. Perhaps I am the first uneducated man who has divined that 
of which he had no idea communicated from without. Perhaps also, many 
others before me have been disquieted at what was passing within them, and 
have died, without finding the clue. Poor creatures that we are !' added 
Patience : * they forbid us neither excess in physical labour, nor in wine, nor 
in any debauch which may destroy our inteUigence. There are people who 
pay dear for the labour of our arms, so that the poor, to satisfy the wants of 
^eir family, labour beyond their strength ; there are public houses, and 
other places still more dangerous, whence the government, it is said, derives 
its revenue ; there are also priests who mount into the pulpits to tell us what 
we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord of the village owes to 
us. There are no schools where they teach us our rights, or where they 
teach us to distinguish our true and honest wants from those which are dish 
graceful and fatal ; where they teach us, in short, what we can and ought to 
think about, when we have toiled all the day for the gain of another, and 
when we are seated in the evening on the thr^hold of our cottages, watching 
ihe red stars rise above the horizon.' " 

Of the beauty of the story — of the fierce anguish through which the 
young savage jjasses, owing to the vehemence of his passions— -of the 
-exquisite mode in which the love of the tender, truly intellectual Edmee, 
is made to mould him to an heroic existence — ^we can give no adequate 
idea by extract. We will, however, give the following, as a brief 
€nsample of Sand's power of description. After six years' trials, Man- 
prat returns to the woman and the home he adored : — 

<< As I placed my foot upon the steps of the ch&teau, I clasped my hands, 
and^ seized with a feeUng of religious awe, invoked Heaven in a kind of terror. 
I know not what vague dread was aroused within me ; I imagined all that 
could interfere with my happiness, and hesitated to cross the threshold of 
the house ; then I darted forward. A cloud passed across m v eyes, a deafen- 
ing noise filled my ears. I met Saint- Jean, who, not recognising me, uttered 
an exclamation, and threw himself before me to prevent my entering -im- 
announced ; I pushed him from my path, and he fell terrified upon a chair 
in the ante-chamber, while I impetuously gained the door of the salon. "Bsii 
as I was about to throw it suddenly open, I stopped, seized with a new terror, 
and unclosed it so timidly, that Edbm^e, occupied with her embroidery frame, 
did not raise her eyes, thinking that she recognised in this slight noise the 
respectful manner of Saint- Jean. The chevaUer was sleeping and did not 
awake. This old man, tall and thm like all the Mauprats, was bent neariy 



NEW BOOKS. 381 

double, and his pale and-vrinlded head, which the insensibility of the tomb 
seemed already to have enveloped, resembled one of those angular figures, 
in sculptured oak, which ornamented the back of his large arm-chair. His 
feet were resting before a fire of vine-cuttings, though tlie sun was warm, 
and a bright ray falling upon his white head made it shine like silver. How 
shall I describe to you what the attitude of Edm^e made me feel ! She was 
bending over her tapestry, and from time to time raised her eyes to her 
father as though to question the slightest movement of his sleep. But what 
patience and resignation pervaded her whole being ! Edm^e did not like 
needlework ; her mind was too serious to attach importance to the effect of 
shade upon shade, and the agreement of one stitch with another. Moreover 
her blood was impetuous ; and when her mind was not absorbed by intel- 
lectual labour, she needed exercise and the open air. But since her father, 
a prey to the infirmities of old age, had scarcely left his arm-chair, she never 
quitted him a single moment ; and, not being able always to read and live by 
the intellect alone, she had felt the necessity of adopting these feminine 
occupations, ' which, are,' she said, * the amusements of captivity.' She had 
then conquered her natural disposition in an heroic manner. In one of those 
obscure struggles which often take place beneath our eyes without our sus- 
pecting their merit, she had done more than conquer her natural disposition, 
she had even changed the vexy circulation of her blood. I found her thinner, 
and her complexion had lost tnat first blush of vouth which is Uke the bloom 
that the breath of morning deposits upon fruit, and which is gone at the 
least exterior touch, though the ardour of the sun has respected it. But 
there was in this precocious paleness, and the attenuation almost sickly, an 
indefinable charm ; her deep and always impenetrable look had less of pride 
and more of melancholy than of old ; her mouth, more flexible, wore a more 
delicate and less disdainful smile. When she spoke, it seemed as though 
I saw two persons in her, the old and the new ; and, instead of having lost 
her beauty, I found that she had attained the ideal of perfection ; I often, 
however, heard it said by several persons that she was grecUly changed ; 
which meant to say, according to them, that she had lost a great deal of her 
beauty. But beauty is like a temple whose exterior riches are all that are 
seen by the profane. The divine mystery of the artist's thought reveals 
itself only to minds in sympathy with his own, and the smallest detail of a 
sublime work contains an inspiration which escapes the perception of the 
vulgar. One of your modem writers has said this, I believe, in other and 
better words. As for me, in no one moment of her life did I ever find 
Edm^e less beautiful than in another ; even in hours of suffering, when 
beauty seems to be effaced in its material form, hers became divine in my 
eyes, revealing a new moral beauty whose reflection inspired her face. 
For the rest, I am but little gifted in the arts, and, had I been a painter, I 
should never have produced more than one type, that with which my soul 
was filled ; for in the course of a long life, one woman only ever seemed 
beautiful to me, and that was Edm^e." 

And wiUi this we must close. But, deeply as we feel the merit of 
Sand, we have two regrets to express, with regard to this noble produc- 
tion. We wish, in the first place, that she had taken a larger canvass 
—-that she had given herself greater scope, that she might have deline- 
ated the characters of the relations of Mauprat more in detail. It is 



382 HBW S00K8. 

strainge, and Bomewhat ahnbyizig, to know that' the French novelists ^f 
. an unworthier kind indulge in the utmost prolixity, and to find that 
80 powerful and teeming a writer as Sand condenses to a fault Her 
works are essences. The second objection we have, is, that she has 
troubled herself to be ingenious, in unravelling the plot, and compli- 
cated it with invention that would win her the ecstatic applause of the 
admirers of the Porte de St. Martin dramas. It is extremely well 
managed, and very clearly told ; but it is as if Minerva- Athene should 
come off her pedestal, and dance the bolera. Her theme is so high, 
her powers so great, that they are alone sufficient to fiill the mind 2mji 
govern the emotions. Timely arrivals, shots mistaken, disgiuses 
assumed, are not necessary to Sand, in order to create an interest. It is 
indeed wonderful to see how she invests these tricks with energy and 
power ; and the delineation of character is never lost sight of. We 
have said thus much to show we are not blind worshippers of this gifted 
woman's writings. We are anxious to introduce her to those who wish to 
separate the true from the false, the conventional from the natural, and 
the really great from the pretentious small. 

Of the translator we can say that which is the highest praise. She 
translates with a kindred feeling — with a sympathising mind that len(}s 
vigour to every line. It may be, as has been said, that a few peculiar 
or provincial expressions have been mistaken ; but we are quite sure no 
mere lexicographer, however correct in his literal rendering, could haye 
imparted the nervous, racy, and vigorous tone to a translation, that 
Miss Hays has. She has a kindred sensibility and imagination ; aad 
Sand is fortunate in having so able a tran8£erer of her sweet and powerful 
fictions. 



A HiSTOBT OF Sertia, AND THE SERVIAN REYOLxnpioN, ffom Original MSS. 
and Documents. Translated from the German of Leopold Banke, by 
Mrs. Alexander Kerr. 8vo. John Murray. 

The old and almost worn-out adage, for we have not met with it very 
lately, that "one half the world does not know what the other is doingj," 
is applicable in a more extensive sense than is usually assigned to if,, 
" The Servians are too little known to the rest of Europe," says Mis. 
Kerr ; but as regards England, and probably all the western and 
southern portions of the Continent, she might have said, nothing is 
known of Servia. Here is a nation, professing the Christian religion, 
and lying like a frontier between it and Mahometanism, of which a few 
sentences in a school geography furnish all that is known to nine 
hundred and ninety nine English, or Frenchmen, out of a thousand — a 
brave and noble branch of the great Sclavonian family, who have 
worked out for themselves their freedom and nationality, by twenty- 
years of fierce contest with their remorseless masters. .Diplomatists 
Mid politicians have, of course, closely watched the struggle, and alter- 
nately availed tiiemselves of the vicissitudes of the war. Hiwsia has 



NEW BOOKS. 383 

talked of brotherly love, Austria of paternal affection, and Franee of 
idndred sympathies ; all of which professions have been turned and 
twisted about as the fortunes of the combatants changed. The people 
of any of these countries, who would assuredly have sympathised with 
them, knew nothing of the straggle in its details nor as to its objects, 
in the mean time, chieftains who could not read, swine-dealers from 
amongst the oppressed and despised peasants, men who were as dirt in 
the opinions of their barbarian rulers, have achieved victory after 
long years of commotion, misery, and bloodshed. 

Such a history must be interesting, and written by such a man as 
Ranke, must be authentic. We are veiy glad to have it, and only 
regret that it is published in a form fitted for the library of the few 
rather than the many. Let us hope the sale of the present handsome 
edition will enable Mr. Murray to issue it in his half-crown library. 
Such histories, as exemplifications of individual humanity, and as inte- 
resting records of the struggles of a nation, are fit reading for the people. 
The conduct of the Servians, though heroic, is not faultless. Ages of 
oppression had hardened their characters, and their annals are stained 
with frightful atrocities and reprisals. Human nature is shown in its 
concrete state, a strange mixture of all that ennobles and all that 
debases it. Still, on the whole, it is an encouraging picture. The 
native capacity for goodness of the heart is proved, if circumstances and 
institutions do not depress and pervert it. The hero of the war and the 
book is Kara (or black) Oeoige. The following anecdote is illustrative 
of his career, and of the. state of morals in the country : — 

^ George PetrowitBch, called Kara, or Zmi, the hlack, 'was bom between 
the years 1760 and 1770, in the village of Wischewzi, in the district of Kva- 
gujewaz. He was the son of a 'peasant named Petrcml ; and in his early 
youth he went with his parents higher up .into the mountain to Topola. In 
the very first commotion of the country — which was in the year 1787, when 
an invasion by the Austrians was expected — ^he took a part that decided the 
character of his future life. He saw himself compelled to flee ; and not 
•wiriiing to leave his fisither behind, amongst the Turks, he took him also, 
' witii all his moveable property and -cattle. Thus he proceeded towards the 
Save^ but the nearer they approached that river, the more alarmed became 
his &ther, who, from the first, would have preferred surrendering, as many 
others had done, imd often advised him to return. Qnee again, and in the 
most urgent manner, when they already beheld the Save before them, ^ Let 
us humble ourselves,' the old man said, < and we shall obtain pardon. Do 
not go to Germany, my son : as surely, as my bread may prosper thee, do 
not go.* But Geoige remained inexorable. His £ftiher was at last equally 
resolved : ^ Go, then, over alone/ he said : < 1 remain in this country.' 
* How ! ' replied Kara George, ^ shall I live to see thee slowly tortured to 
death by the Turks ? It is better that I should kill thee myself on the 
spot V Then seizing a pistol, he instantly shot his father, and ordered one 
of his companions to give the death-blow to the old man, who was writhing 
in agony. In the next village, Kara said to the people, ' Get the old man 
who lies yonder buried for me, and drink also for his soul at a funeral feast' 



384 KEW BOOKS. 

For that puirpose he made them a present of the cattle which he had witb 
him, and then crossed the Save. 

<< This deed, which was the first indication of his character, threw him out 
of tlie common course. He returned to his own district, with the rank of 
seijeant, in the corps of volunteers ; but, belieying hhnself unjustly passed 
over at a distribution of medals, he retired into the mountains as a Heyduc 
However, he became reconciled in this matter with his colonel, Mihaljewitsch ; 
went with him after the peace to Austria ; and was made 'forest-keeper* 
in the cloister of Kruschedol. But he did not rest satisfied in Austria ; and 
as, under Hadochi Mustafa, he had nothing to fear in Servia, he returned 
thither, and from that time followed his business — ^that of a dealer in swine. 
The outrages of the Dahis hurried him into the movements in which he was 
destined to perform so important a part. 

*' Kara George was a very extraordinary man. He would sit for days 
together without uttering a word, biting his nails. At times, when ad- 
dressed, he would turn his head aside and not answer. When he had 
taken wine, he became talkative ; and if in a cheerful mood, he would per- 
haps lead off a Kolo-dance. 

*' Splendour and magnificence he despised. In the days of his greatest 
success, he was always seen in his old blue trowsers, in his worn-out short 
pelt, and his well-known black cap. His daughter, even whilst her father 
was in the exercise of prinoely authority, was seen to carry her water- vessel^ 
like other girls in the village. Yet, strange to say, he was not insensible ta 
the charms of gold." 

There are numerous episodes such as these which give a life and ani- 
mation to the narrative, whilst the historical and political portions am 
distinguished by the accuracy and impartiality wnich are the distin- 
guishing characteristics of Professor Ranke's historical writings. The 
romance of the subject may have somewhat evaporated under the 
severity of the political treatment, and we cannot say that we distin- 
guish any of those profound or original remarks that would entitle the 
author to rank with those ancient historians, who, while they penned a 
narrative of individuals, characterised a race. Of history, in its highest 
form, we see nothing ; but as a level and comprehensive narrative of 
important and interesting events, much that is to be commended. It is 
a section of history entirely new and well worth studying on every 
account, inasmuch as it treats of a people connected with a race pro- 
bably destined to play a very prominent part in the future politics of 
Europe. The Sclavonian nations when united will avenge the outrages 
committed on that portion bought, sold, and destroyed in Poland. 

The translation is elegantly rendered, and the difficulties of the 
original remarkably well got over. The translatress has the advantage 
of being intimately acquainted with the subject and the country, and by 
her notes and her preface has added to the value of the original. 



^^J 



DOUGLAS JERROLD^S 

SHILLING MAGAZINE. 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER * 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ORION." 
CHAPTER XXV. 

PISASTEBS OF MESSES. SHORT AND BAINT0I7. — MISS JUDITH WALTON. — HER 
SERIOUS DISCOURSE WITH MART. — MART ACCOMPANIES ELLEN LLOTD TO 
WALES. — RUIN OP MR. WALTON. 

" Herb 's a pretty concern ! " ejaculated Mr. Walton, suddenly 
opening Mary's door, one morning before she was up. In each 
hand he held an open letter ! His face was lathered for shaving, 
and he was enveloped in a thickly wadded dressing-gown. 
" Here is one disaster — and here is another. Two disasters by 
the same penny post.'* 

** What has happened ? *' said Mary, sitting up in bed. 

"Every bad thing that covld happen,** cried Mr. Walton, "has 
happened — is happening — or is about to happen. It is the sure 
forerunner of — of — a forerunner of — Mary, dear, just wipe the 
hither out of the corner of my mouth — pah ! — ^the sure forerunner 
of — and nostrils too — ^puff ! — the sure forerunner of utter ruin to 
the most patriotic schemes ever devised to make a fortune." 

" But tell me what it is that has happened," said Mary, reach- 
ing her shawl from the back of a chair, and folding it round her 
shoulders. 

" Why, Sainton has been shot at with a blunderbuss loaded 
with pebbles and rusty nails." 

" And wounded ? " cried Mary. 

" I '11 tell you presently/* exclaimed Mr. Walton, clasping his 
hands. 

* Continued from page 405, Vol. VI. 
NO. XXXVI. — ^yOL. YI. I I 



482 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

" Not killed I *' ejaculated Mary. 

** Never mind that now," cried Mr. Walton, petulantly. "And 
fseyen fine new smacks, the decks of which had just been laid 
down, all launched in the night, into the open sea, during a gale 
of wind, and nothing seen or heard of them since." 

« Why— how ? " 

"Why, poor Bainton merely sent away eight or ten Irish 
hands who were working in his yard, because four or five Scotch 
boat-builders, and one Frenchman, happened to offer him their 
services." 

" But Mr. Bainton ? " pursued Mary. 

" Oh, Bainton 's not hurt, hang him — ^he might have been sure 
when ho discharged the Paddies that it would be certain to come 
into the heads of some of them that we did not wish to employ 
them, even in helping us to carry away their own fish." 

" And the other letter ? " said Mary. 

"Oh, confusion worse confounded! " exclaimed Mr. Walton, 
throwing himself unconsciously into a theatrical attitude. " Short 
arrived from Scotland to Galway with five ^ick and span new 
fishing-smacks, rigged and manned, and with nets, and hooks, and 
things, all ready ^r wholesale fishery, but the Gladdagh colony of 
wild Irish fishermen — ^many of whom had expected to be engaged 
in the boats — in fact^ I think when I was there, I half promised it. 
— ^became furious at this, and the other morning, in broad day*- 
light, th^ went in a body and set fire to the sniacks, and thea 
ran, with howls and curses, towards Short's house. Short heard 
and saw ihem coming — twigged what it was all about, and only 
had just time to get astride upon a horse, and gallop away without 
his hat. The howling Cladda^ men followed at his heels, 
intending to tar and feather hun» and the horse too*-*or at least, 
kiU him." 

" Had you not better go to your room and finish dressing, 
pa{>a .? we can speak of this further after breakfast." 

•'* I have not told you all yet. Poor Mrs. Bainton has. died of 
fright. Bainton says, that as he has lost Harding^ he has no one 
he can rely upon to continue the operations where he is, and of 
course he cannot stay to be shot or blud^doned*; he therefore says 
he must withdraw from the undertakbg. As for. Shorty he writes 
like a madman." 

Mr. Walton struck his forehead, and left the room, flaying, as 
he crossed the passage, "I shall get my death of cold." 



THE DBEAHER AKD THE WOBKEIU 483 

While a^irs were in this position^ there arrived at the cottage 
the rich spinster sister of Mr. Walton, to whom previous allusion 
has heen made. Miss Judith Walton never entered a house, hut 
in a surprisingly short time she made herself acquainted with all 
the gossip, scandal, vexatious facts, and illiheral surmises current 
in the house and neighhourhood, and what each person thought, 
of each person on the ill-natured side of the mind. Her skill 
in pumping servants, laundresses, and tradespeople exceeded 
helief. 

On the morning of the third day after her arrival, she requested, 
with an air of importance, to have a little private conversation 
with Mary. 

''I am of course aware, Mary," said she, in a formal voice> 
" that you have hroken off your engagement with Mr. Archer. 
I need not tell you, I hope, that it gives me great satisfaction, 
and I commend your prudence and good sense — prudence and 
common sense — so far as that matter is conc^iied. He was a 
man of no profession — ^had no definite standing in soci-e-tee. > He 
had evidently passed his life in a useless way — ^idle and fruitless 
studies, leading to no suhstantial income,. and appearing to have 
considerahle pretensions founded upon nothing certain. His imcle, 
I am told, is a respectahle man enou^, and for that very reason 
I have no helief that he will realise any of his nephew's expecta* 
tions. They are not upon rery friendly terms I understand. I 
therefore commend your final decision extremely, and think you 
have acted with hecoming propri-e-tee.*' 

'' I should do wrong, aunt," said Mary, ''to allow you to think 
that any of the reasons you have adduced had the least infiuence 
in causing me to hreak off my eu^pagement with Mr. Archer." 

'< Ind^ ! Then I am sorry for you, Mary. It seems I gave 
you credit for something more than you possess." 

** Yes," said Mary, coolly. 

*' Perhaps he was the first to intimate a ohang^ of sentiments," 
added Miss Judith, spitefully* 

'* It is ended, aunt," said Mary, '' and I should he glad not 
to speak further i^n it* My admiration and sisterly regard, 
Mr. Archer will always Jiave." 

Miss Judith Walton drew in a long bjfeath ti, this, and her 
expression of face assumed the character of an angry bird in a 
cage. She gave a stmt .and aflfimnce across the room, and then 
returning to Mary, hegasi to speak in asharp and very quick voice. 

Ii2 



AND THE VOBKEB, 

" Kot killed ! " ejaculated Kary. 

"Meyer mind tliat now," cried Mr. Walton, petulantly. "And 
seven fine new Bmacke, the decks of which had just been laid 
down, all launched in the night, into the open sea, during a gale 
of wind, and nothing Been or heard of them Bince." 

" Why— how ? " 

" Why, poor B&inton merely eent away eight or ten Irish 
hands who were working in his yard, because four or five Scotch 
boat-builders, and one Frenchman, happened to offer him their 
Bervices." 

" But Mr. Biunton ? " pursued Mary. 

" Oh, Bainton 'a not hurt, hane him — he micht have been sure 



^ THE DBEUIEB AHD THE WOBKHR, 483 

*^^Hcl,^ ^*^*ire were ia this position, there amTodat the cottage 
^ W"^'**'^ ^*t«r of Mr. Walton, to whom preriouB aUuaioR 
^° * Bornri'^^; ^'^ "^"^'^ Walton noYer entered a house, but 
r*^ W|"^"'S'y short time Bhe made hereelf acquainted with all 
^'f ^ WuL^"'^'^*'' ™»itioua facta, and UUberal Burmiaea current 
■ ^**'» dbI neighbourhood, and what each person thought * 
J^.^tOBioIr''' "" *he iU-natured aide of the mind. Her BkiU 



484 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

** I have heard all about your affair with the man Harding. 
It has been very closely hushed up ; hut how is it possible such 
a thing could be kept close ? His constantly hovering about the 
house — his throwing himself in your way ift the streets — ^his 
calling every morning of his life to see you while in Dublin — ^his 
patrolling nightly in the character of an amorous swain, round 
this very cottage — ^his standing and beating his breast under your 
window, are among the most audacious things the world ever 
heard of!" 

" It is the first time I have heard of some of them," said Mary, 
colouring, ''and all the rest are grossly misinterpreted." 

" What should I think," exclaimed Miss Judith, " of the scene 
that took place at Mr. Short's house in Dublin, where this ruffian 
mechanic pulled the scarf from your shoulders, and was only 
prevented by the timely entrance of Mr. Short, from " 

"I beg, aunt," interrupted Mary, "that you will cease to 
repeat these coarse calumnies — these shameful perversions of all 
truth." 

" Perversions do you call them ? Did not this mechanic abso- 
lutely pay court to you — ^pay you addresses, in his rude way ? Did 
he not even venture so far as to make some proposals ? " 

•* Never ! " exclaimed Mary, ** never, by word or look, or 
movement. And you must allow me to tell you, aunt, at the same 
time, that I should consider the affection of such a man as Hard- 
ing, nothing but an honour to any woman, however indisposed she 
might be to accept it." 

" Have I lived," cried Miss Judith, with upraised hands, 
*^have I lived to hear one of my family utter so degrading a 
sentiment — the love of a mechanic no disgrace to a woman of 
education and gentility ? We are come upon pretty times if a 
mechanic is thus allowed to creep up the sleeves of gentlefolks, 
and be treated as their equal, till it quite turns his head.". 

** How many members of parliament were once mechanics ? *' 
inquired Mary. " How many influential merchants were once 
mechanics? How very rnhnj men of science and the useful 
arts — and even in the fine arts — ^were mechanics ? How many 
benefactors of their species in these and many other ways were, 
in the commonest acceptation of the word, working men ? " 

Miss Judith Walton stood confounded for several seconds with 
her mouth open ; but a keen thought flashed upon her mind, 
and gathermg heradf up for an overwhelming blow, she cried. 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 48$ 

or rather screamed, " And when this shipwright genius of 
yours becomes a member of parliament, I shall have no objectiou 
to his paying his addresses to a niece of mine — ^provided his 
qualification is hondjide** 

With these words the gown and petticoats of Miss Judith 
Walton flapped against the opening door, then flapped against the 
wall, and she retired, leaving the field to Mary, who began to put 
her hair in order with a smiling face, after all this fluster. 

Mary gradually fell into a train of thought which resulted in the 
determination to adopt the course which she felt be^t suited to the 
position of affairs ; and with this riew she immediately sought 
Ellen Lloyd. The conference did not last long, and when it ter* 
minated Ellen Lloyd remained standing as if in a rapturous 
dream^ while Mary hastened to prepare for their immediate 
departure for the cottage in Wales. 

Mr. Walton offered no opposition to Mary's going, as he had been 
made aware by his sister of her very unpleasant scene with Mary, 
and he therefore thought that his daughter's absence at this junc- 
ture, for a visit of a week or so, might prevent a rupture of a kind, 
which, for her sake, he was very anxious to avoid. 

The ladies in question accordingly departed the next morning, 
after taking leave of Miss Judith Walton, a ceremony which 
she took care to render as disagreeable as possible, under the 
guise of most scnipulous politeness. 

Mr. Walton had never agreed very well with his sister, as may 
be readily imagined. He now, however, did his best to repair the 
breach between her and Mary. He took her about to see the 
wonders of Portsmouth and Gosport; he went little excursions 
with her, and got up several dinner parties, to which he usually 
invited one or other of the officers of the garrison, who had per- 
formed with him in ** Titus Andronicus." Miss Judith Walton 
was rapidly advancing to her most amiable state of mind, and had 
even got up a little flirtation with the morone-faced major, who had 
played Aaron, when intelligence arrived of the stoppage of the 
bank of Messrs. Bray and Toller, in which the whole capital of 
the Anglo-Celtic Company was lodged — and Mr. Walton saw that 
he was quite ruined. 



486 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 



CHAPTER XXYL 

ARCHEB'S SOLITABT lodging. — AN UNEXPECTED TI8nraf&. — INWABD BliSORIIS. 

-^LANDMABKS AND STABrSTSE&ING. 

Th^ wind blew high, in the twilight of an autumnal evening, as 
Archer sat, with a desponding and wretched face, at the window 
of his solitary lodging. It was a lonely farm>honse, near the sea. 
Fronting his window was a broad lawn, with one old, Uack fir*tree 
in the middle^ whose lower boughs extended, in a wide-sweepii^ 
circle, down to the grass, which was unshorn and deep. The 
lawn was terminated by a stone wall, not quite breast*high. Oa 
the other side of this was a great ploughed field, bounded at the 
opposite end by a high bank of shingles, sloping down to the sea, 
which it thus hid from view, except when in seasons of tempest 
and high tide the white points of the spray sprang up and dashed 
over it. 

;^The wind, though warm for the time of year, blew yet moee 
strenuously ; but between the gusts Archer thought he heard a 
powerful voice in the distance, singing — it seemed as if in 
responses to the wind. Presently, a dusky figure ascended the 
bank of shingles, and remained there a minute or so, loi^dng 
black and solid, against the pale green and platina streaks of 
the dying twilight. The figure then descended the shingle bank, 
and crossed the ploughed field rapidly, with a gait curiously 
partaking of the elastic and the lounging. He approached in the 
direction of the farm-house ; and, arriving at the stone- waU, ho 
placed his hands upon it, and vaulted over into the deep grass of 
the lawn. Archer rose with emotion^ and hastened out to meet 
him. It was Michael Salter. 

Archer greeted this unexpected visitor with all the cordiality of 
a reviving heart, (for besides personal regard, he felt as if help 
and strength had come to him), mingled with the profound admira- 
tion and intellectual respect which many crowding reminiscences 
of their former acquaintance inspired. They entered the houae 
together. 

Michael Salter was a short and rather thick-set man, whom a 
casual observer might have taken for a Welsh farmer, or perhaps 
a curate with a " living " among the mountains ; while to others, 
his grey blue eyes, and almost flaxen hair, hanging in long waves 
upon his shoulders, might have suggested a Saxon origin. He 



TOE I»tBAllBR A3SJ> TH8 W0BEB2U 487 

had a bald monastic crown. A great black Bilk ahawl was' wound 
seyeral times round his neck. As to his age, he was one of those 
men whose age cannot be well guessed within twenty years*— varying 
with his mood and subject of thought or discourse, from thrty to 
£fty. He slowly imwound his long black shawl, with a smiling face, 
threw it into his hat, which it nearly filled, and seating himself in 
front of Archer, said, in a gentle, low-toned Yoiee, (singularly at 
Tariance with the toneshe had just been giving out on the searbeach), 
" Well ; I come like a weird brother to visit you. I heard, by 
aeoident, of a mdandioly gentleman with a book, in these parts, 
and it stru^ me, for several reasons, that it might be you ; so I 
came, as you see, upon a high wind, which just dropped na&on the 
ol^er side of the shmgles. How has it fskred with you this many 
a day ? You look in good ease." 

** Oh, but I am not," said Archer, half relapsing into his 
morbid state. '' I am in a very bad case^— ruined in heart and 
hope, and in nearly all my future prospects." 

** I should never have conceived it» to look at you* Perhaps 
you only fancy it. Some things have gone painfully with, you, 
and so you feel, for a time, that all 's over with you. But I can't 
think this is really so." 

" It is," murmuzed Archer — " I begin to fear it is. My youth 
has passed from me,^ — ^-and where is my maturity ? " 

" Why, in another and stronger youth, to be wire. At any 
rate, you are well in health." 

** Pretty well," said Archer, " but getting very sick of myself, 
and all things." 

<< Do not talk in this way. You are in good heal^ii, I see ; 
rather thin, but that 's best for a literary man ; pale, too, but this 
is, you know, the natural ' hue of thought ;' and for the rest, it is a 
grievance which you have taken to heart more deeply than wisely ; 
and you will get over it." 

" What do you allude to ? Have you " 

** Yes ; I have heard certain pandean echoes of the woods, 
where tall masts are grown, and have pieced together the skirts 
and breast-folds of sundry floating clouds concealing the* capricious 
boy-archer." (Here Salter smiled with a look of kindly interest, 
and his voice sunk to a sweet tone, while his blue-grey eyes shone 
with humorous intelligence.) 

" You astonish me," said Archer. " How can you have heard 
anything of this ? " 



488 THE DSEAIOSB AND THE WOBKEB. 

*' Ah, one does come to hear things sometimes, in the strangest^ 
roundabout way, or in an equally extraordinary direct line. The 
world is full of electricity — mentally no less than physically. We 
are one moment working some new engines in England, and the 
next draining a marsh in India ; we are walking up a dark lamp- 
less street in Portsmouth, — and presently we are wandering round 
a dazzling obelisk in Egypt, with upturned eyes, and sun-scathed 
fingers, as we copy the hieroglyphics upon our parching paper ; — 
perhaps we are asking dark questions of some unmoved queenly 
mystic of a sphynx, or perhaps speculating in front of an enormons 
god, who sits — a bulk of stone, with thoughtful lips, sealed up, yet 
half-smiling, and eyes turned inward on eternity. The familiar 
and the sublime alternate in us, with easy transitions. Kow, we 
look at a beautiful young girl's face, seen by gas-light through 
a shop-window in Paris; — we turn down a dark, narrow, rice- 
bewildered passage, — ^monsters, or their victims, jostle us, — and 
the next moment we shoot up, and find ourselves close beside the 
brightest star of night, and struggling with its rays^ which alone 
prevent our entrance.'* 

Archer shifted himself on his seat with a look of rapture, axxd 
took a long satisfactory breath. He felt carried out of himself, 
and all the petty interests and cares of life, even as he had been 
in former days when listening to the magnificent abstractions and 
outpourings of Michael Salter. 

"By similar electricity of thought," continued Salter, "our 
friends' secrets are sometimes brought to our tingling, but not 
impertinent ears ; for even sympathy, when imdesired^ may be 
best displayed by shunning knowledge." 

** Sympathy like yours," said Archer, ** so perfectly generous, 
so devoid of the least tinge of egotism, selfishness, or mere 
curiosity, could not be felt otherwise than gladly and gratefully. 
I wish you would let me tell you my whole story — my inward 
history, and as much of external events as may be needful to illos- 
tration — since last we met." 

" Tell me the inward, I shall guess most of the correlative out- 
ward things. But is there any good in telling me this — ^will miy 
hearing it be of any use to you ? " 

" Of the greatest use," exclaimed Archer; **I shall thereby 
obtain a relief to my feelings, which I cannot otherwise find, and 
shall be enabled to see my best course in that future, which at pre- 
sent fills my mental vision with little else but pain, and doubt, and 



THE DBEAMEB AND THE WORKER. 489 

perplexity, and an oppressive sense of the futility of all exertions. 
Can one, so full of all manner of energies as you are, listen with 
any degree of patience to this ? " 

" Certainly ; first, because I would show myself a friend, and 
also because I shall hope to communicate a Promethean spark, to 
re-illume your sphere of man. Besides, these sorts of intellectual 
confidences and autobiographies are always a compliment to any 
one who is chosen as their depository. So, proceed at once. 
Begin in the middle — I can dart back upon the threads, from 
time to time, as we go on." 

Archer began with his engagement to Mary in Canada, and 
then by degrees he told Michael Salter all his history — all his 
troubles. He hesitated a little when he arrived at his last 
interview with Mary, and with Harding. Men who watch the 
operations of their own minds, are, nevertheless, open to self- 
sophistication, almost equally with the ordinary run of mankind, 
when their own personal feelings are concerned. Archer, how- 
ever, was not unconscious that in his final behaviour to Mary and 
to Harding, he did not make a very magnanimous figure ; but he 
tried to " account *' for it all by the pardonable mistake under 
which he had acted. He therefore hammered his way through 
this part of his story as. well as he could, though Michael Salter 
remained provokingly silent during every pause. Archer also 
passed rather too slightly over Ellen Lloyd, except that he spoke 
raptm'ously of her with reference to music and poetry. He briefly 
stated the straitness and precariousness of his worldly circum- 
stances, at which his listener smiled with an amused expression. 
Lastly, he came to literature. Here he was diffuse on every 
point — here he unbosomed his struggles and griefs, and aspirations, 
and despondencies, without reserve. 

During all this time, Michael Salter had sat reclining back, with 
his heels upon the upper rail of his chair, his arms folded, and his 
chin upon his breast. He now slowly unsettled himself, and drew 
his chair near to Archer. 

" Give me leave to speak first," said Michael Salter in a low- 
toned voice, " of that part of your narrative which relates to 
Miss Walton, and to Harding." 

** By all means," said Archer, with a sigh. 

" It has, no doubt, been," pursued Michael Salter, " a very 
painfid business. As to your final conduct in the matter, you 
seem to have behaved just as badly as men always do in such 



490 THB DBEAHBB AND THE WOBKSB. 

affairs. I know there is this excuse, that jou were acting tmdar 
erroneous impressions ; nevertheless, — ^from you, a trained intellect, 
one familiar with subtle speculations — a poet, and a man of letters,*-^ 
pardon me, if I saj one might have expected better things* Tou 
have written to Miss Walton, of course ? " 

<'Yes," said Archer, rather hesitatinglj ; ''yes — ^but I have 
not " 

<* Not posted the letter ? " 

"No." 

'' Oh, fie ! her conduct has really been noble and straight- 
forward, and in all respects without reproach. If her love for you 
had ceased, do not forget that yours had' ceased first. That 
seems clear — and it is equally clear to me that you nerer had aisjf 
passion for each other. You were thrown together in a foreign 
country, and had an accidental moment of mutual tenderness. It 
was a great mistake to treat this as a serious affisur for life. But 
after all that subsequently occurred — and at last-^not to write ! 
Oh, send her the letter." 

" I will — I will," said Archer ; " I have not treated her well 
in this delay ; but you can apprehend how very painful — " 

*' Yes — ^we are constantly called upon to sacrifice our own 
feelings — and very often we cannot do it. And Harding ? " 

<' I am unable to write to him at present, as I do not know 
where he is gone." 

** See now what you have done to that man ! How wSl joa 
repay the injury ? You lifted his mind high above his condition 
— ^placed him upon a level with yourself, and assured him that it 
was his rightful place — which, in my judgment, it was not — for 
he is evidently a man who ought to lead the nobler energies of the 
hand- working class, and not to sit with idealist workers. Now, 
what is he to think ? — what reaction may not his mind sink into ? 
He will consider himself as one who has been deceived and led 
astray — ^all his implicit faith and reliance, all his best aspirations, 
will be destroyed — and disbelief in the moral value of superior 
intellect will be established, and with it, perhaps, a dogged resolve 
to abjure every species of refined knowledge, every poetical, ele- 
vating, and spiritualising influence. In addition to this^ he goes 
away with a broken heart." 

*' But what can I do?" 

"Write to him, and address the letter to the care of adme 
friend of his, to be forwarded. Sooner or later it will find him. 



THE SBEAMEB AKD THE WORKER. 491 

Your letter found me by that means, after we had lost sight of 
each other for years." 

" Perhaps he may write to Mr. Baintoa." 

" That will do, I dare say. But while you have explained so 
clearly all the points of deficiency in sympathy between yourself 
and Miss Walton, I am surprised that you should have omitted to 
touch upon the various sympathies which -manifestly do exist 
between yourself and her golden-haired friend." 

"Abstract sympathies," said Archer, "similarity of tastes — 
I see whom you allude to.'* 

" Such abstractions, for instance, " continued Michael Salter, 
"as a devoted love for all poetical things — a fine sense of Art, in 
its widest and noblest sense — ^an imagination harmoniously blend- 
ing with, and enhancing the understanding — a graceful, sylphide* 
form — eyes, equally dovelike and ethereal." 

" How can you possibly collect all these * abstractions,' as you 
call them, from anything that has fallen from me?" exclaimed 
Archer, with evident emotion. 

" A most fascinating nawete,** pursued Salter, with humorous 

gravity — " a voice of that sweetness which sinks into the hearer's 

-breast. As to the devoted feeling she entertains towards you — ^" 

" You surely," interrupted Archer, turning pale, " you surely 
do not say all this merely from what I have told you ? You have 
known Ellen Lloyd ! " 

Michael Salter smiled. ** Yes, she was once a pupil of mine." 

« A pupU ! " 

"I got involved in difficulties from the total neglect of my 
worldly affairs, and as it was requisite to do something, I went to 
Belgium, and was organist in one of the cathedrals there for some 
years. The Miss Lloyds passed a summer in Brussels, during 
which time I gave lessons to Ellen Lloyd, then a girl of sixteen." 

" You astonish and delight me," said Archer. " This accounts 
for her style. She plays the piano-forte with a sostenuto effefct 
that has always reminded me of an organ ; and she continually 
introduces cathedral chords, in preludes to herself, as if her 
thoughts were soaring harmoniously round the vault of heaven.** 

" I know,'* said Michael Salter. " But to return to the matter 
of literature. I feel with how pure a devotion you have pursued 
your studies. You are the model of what a literary man should be 
- — a devout reader, an earnest thinker, a careful student, — possess- 
ing a philosophical, and, in its highest sense, a. practical mind. 



492 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 

grafted by patient toil upon a poetical one ; you have invention, 
structure, and draw character with a subtle hand ; you are an 
honest politician, with a good smack of the violence of the times ; 
and you have a strong and polished pen, with a clear and pungent 
style. But all this, and more of the kind, will not make you a 
popular author. You want force of character in yourself; a 
stronger individuality. Excuse my saying this, for I do it in all 
true regard. You want will and active passion ; something of 
that reckless energy which forces a way through all obstacles and 
minor considerations, and which, besides making its identity felt 
in the literary world, makes also a personal impression upon con- 
temporaries. You stand aloof ; you write notes ; you never go 
near any of them ; they take no personal interest in you, and 
therefore give you no help by their public criticism and notice. If 
you were, by fortune, or by personal character, independent of all 
assistance, this isolation were very well, if you liked it best ; but 
as matters stand with you, it may be ruinous." 

** But my circumstances,** interposed Archer, "do not now 
enable me to frequent the society even of literary men, whose 
habits are generally inexpensive. Besides an indisposition to much 
society, a variety of adverse circumstances environ me.*' 

*' That,^* said Salter, ** is just what I meant to exclaim against. 
You allow circumstances to command you — not your soul, but your 
external man — for more than need be. You want more confidence 
— a more powerful conviction of your own truth. Those who have 
this, walk in and out where and when they please. Self-confi- 
dence, undisguised, and rejoicing in its own strength, disturbs and 
humiliates others who are weak and small of soul, and makes them 
tingle all over with spite and resentment, as one often sees ; 
while to the truly powerful spirits nothing is more delightful. It 
illustrates what they feel. They recognise in it a man full of 
something great, who has an implicit belief in that greatness, and 
in himself. These are the men to seek. And circumstances are 
in favour, and not against one like you, in doing so.** 

** I cannot do so," said Archer ; "I have lived a solitary life 
too long, so that any such eflforts, if not out of my power, are 
extremely distasteful to me." 

** Then don't do it," said Michael Salter, proudly. 

** I cannot abandon literature," added Archer, with a depressed 
.air ; ** neither does it appear that I am very fit to succeed in it. 
But what else am I fit for ? " 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 493 

« 

** Do not think of abandoning it," exclaimed Michael Salter, 
" nor seek to live by it. You have the highest qualities for it, if 
you will abandon the thoughts of popularity and reward. Live, 
my friend, how you can ; a trifle will suflfice, as you do not • mix 
with society ; ' and devote yourself more than ever to the labour 
you delight in, and the art in which you excel. If your dreams be 
high and well founded, they will some day germinate into corres- 
ponding works, and take their due position among the structures 
of immortality. Why should we, who can devise new things, lose 
60 much time in the scraping and polishing of outsides ? Leave 
after-times to 'find' a publisher, and correct your proofs. But 
now, while you live and are full to overflowing, pour it out into the 
best vessels that come to hand, whether of gold or of iron, of 
porphyry and jasper, or of common clay. See ! Archer, here is 
a memorandum of my work during the last year." 

Michael Salter, after searching in two or three deep pockets, 
exhumed a folded paper, which he thrust into Archer's hand. 

Archer opened it, and began to read. 

** Virtue in the cradle, and Vice in the school, being an Essay 
on training for the Ideal and the Practical, in their highest 
natural Relations." — " A Plan for altering the Climate of India, so 
far as relates to Poison in the Air." — "How to render a whole 
Army insensible for half an hour — granted a few hours' time 
for the erection of a certain Gasometer." — ** How to devise the 
greatest work mankind now wants, and how to die in the best way 
to * set it forth,' and teach devotional belief in it." 

** Another time ! — another time ! " cried Michael Salter, " read 
the rest alone. But in your own book, my friend, and your pros- 
pects from it, do not be deceived. It will take its silent place 
beside such labours as you will find in that paper. It will give you 
a literary future — it will do nothing for your present life. Such 
is the condition of letters in our country — such the state of know- 
ledge in the world, which especially prides itself upon its practice 
and its facts. Write your book — bestow all your best pains upon 
it — and cast it upon the waters of the 'noblest seaward river, 
leaving it as a legacy to the world, as the world is, which would 
starve us, precisely because it needs what we have to teach." 

" Sometimes," said Archer, ** I am full of hope that I do not 
work in vain, although I may never live to see the results ; but 
sometimes my spirit desponds — my heart almost dies within me — 
I recollect how many have toiled all their lives under a delusion — 



494 THE DBEAlftEB AND THE WORKER. 

a false eBtimate of their own powers, or of the importance they 
attach to their ruling passion — and at these times it seems to me 
that all I have done, or can do, will put forth no roots in the 
grave — will lift no self-renewing head to shoot upward towards the 
morning/' 

''Hope for no more of nature and mankind than truth and 
justice ; expect no less ; and smile at destiny," exclaimed Michael 
Salter, rising with energy. '* The common seed readily finds 
a soil — the winds may carry it whither they list, — and the 
common weed groweth where nothing else will spring ; hut the 
lustrous palm-tree, the mighty cedar, and the hright ecstatic 
flower claim their peculiar earth and air, which most assuredly 
they find, or else sink hack upon the hosom of their Creator. To 
do his utmost, and to expect the least reward, or none, is man's 
best virtue and wisdom. Does this destroy thy hope — doth it 
cast a mist before thy prospect, and damp thy energies, which 
would rather have followed the giants of an hour ? Hope ever — 
but hope strongly — that is, with a heart of aspiring flame, said 
the wings of reason. Each atom in each planet has its appointed 
duty, its work and its wages ; but the workman, make what else 
he may, maketh not his own hours. Primitive substance and its 
periods of being, are beyond us. We see that law here in aU 
our noblest labours — our grandest designs^-»-for God is a large and 
truthful paymaster ; but^ to use a homely figure, with a high 
reverence, he always payeth his labourers on the Monday morning, 
and never on the Saturday night. First the worfc—then the 
patience — ^then, if any, the reward. The Sunday of God and 
Man must intervene — a day of rest set apart from earth-labour 
for looking upward, and feeling upward^ after your own way — a 
day to adore the star you have chosen as the type of an immortal 
course, and by whose divine smile you wish to steer through the 
troubled surge of life* Is not this a sustaining thought —do not 
these emotions, rooted in eternal nature, give to us a just self- 
centred power ? You are called a flimsy dreamer ? — a dealer 
in mysteries, or strange words. By whom ? By what manner of 
men ? Why shrink from the finger-mark of the foolish — or why 
be moved by the lowing of heavy oxen ? I am a dreamer — a 
visionary — one who prays in the moonlight, or the sunHght, or the 
spirit-light of any mystery, any science, any. art-— and I glory in 
the appellation. I am a wild speculator — a dreamy abstraction 
man— one who has by no means a 'well-regulated mind' — «n 



THE DBEAMEB AlH) THE WOBESR. 495 

e&ihusiast — a believer in all noble passions — all exalted aspirations 
-^no star of aU the host of heaven is too high or too far off for 
my burning desire, my belief in Immensity — and Infinitude — 
my soul's supreme endowment of illimitable flight. And if — let 
me breathe it into your deepest chords of being — if in the dark 
and narrow grave, all the pride of earth, and the world's estima- 
tion of external form and action — all which constitute the smaller 
part of a sublime intellect's glory — must return to its original 
elements, and seem to fly asunder for ever, I will yet hope, in the 
grand revolution of mortal time, when each atom is once again 
where it was, in connection with others combining to make a 
special hiunan form, thus once again produced, — that the countless 
centuries have not rolled about these atoms without purpose, and 
that yet grander physical principles, whether of colossal shape, 
intenser nerve, or multiplied senses, may be conferred upon us for 
inconceivable new labours, by the Creative Breath which ordains 
and directs our spiral ascensions towards an ineffable eternity." 

Tears of excitement were in Archer's eyes, as Michael Salter 
suddenly advanced and grasped his hand. Before he could rise, 
and see clearly, he found himself alone. 

He followed hastily, but by the time he reached the door, Michael 
Salter had crossed the lawn, and was seated on the top of the stone 
waU. The dusky flgm*e of the enthusiast dropped leisurely over on 
the other side. It was a brilliant star-light night, and his form was 
distinctly visible all across the ploughed fleld. He ascended the 
bank of shingles — ^paused a moment on the top, gazing upward at 
the starry firmament — «nd then disappeared on the other side. 



CHAPTER XXVIL 



THE THREB WISE HEN. -^ABCHER MEETS ▲ NEWLT-MiJttlBD COUPLE IN 
WALES. — 'BIS VISIT 10 TBE COTTAiGE (XF THE MISS LLOTDS. — SCENE 
BETWEEN ABiCHEB.^ UASX, AlfD ELLEN LLOTP. 

With feelings revived^ a mind more at ease, and energies more 
elastic and hopefcd, Archer fell to work with great assiduity the 
morning after hi& interview with. Michael Salter. His enthusiasm 
had received new fire as from above. He resolved to put forth 
the best of his spirit — the whole of his strength-— into his philo- 
sophical novel. The " Three Wise Men "would be one of the 
finest works in. the language^ and its merits WjOiuld be speedily 



496 THE DREAMEB AND THE WORKER. 

acknowledged. It was all very well for Michael Salter — who 
thought a manuscript sufficiently launched, if it produced a power- 
ful effect upon any other man's mind — to cast everything upon the 
waters — to throw all present life overboard, into the rolling seas 
of the future. It was possible to carry this spirituality a little 
too far. Exclusiveness was not good, even in ethereal things ; and 
since man was made of body as well as soul, Archer admitted to 
himself that he should prefer to earn some little reputation and 
competency on this side of the grave. The ** Three Wise Men " 
would fully attain these things for him. 

Having worked incessantly for several days at his novel. Archer 
began to find that some exercise was requisite for his health. He 
set out on a ramble over the mountains. The clouds were high^ 
the heath was fresh and odorous, a brightness was over all things. 
Arriving at an abrupt turn of the mountain, he suddenly found 
himself looking down upon the lovely vale leading circuitously 
towards the cottage of the Lloyds. He stood silently gazing 
downward, rapt in thought. Presently two figures emerged from 
a little wood below. Their figures and movements were familiar 
to him, but he was too far off to be satisfied who they were. He 
walked mechanically down the mountain towards them, when it 
became evident that they had recognised him, and were beckoning. 
One of them was certainly the elder Miss Lloyd ; but who was 
the gentleman at her side, to whom she was pointing out the 
beauties of Welsh scenery ? 

He lost sight of them for a time in his descent, but on emerging 
lower down, when they again appeared, he involuntarily ejacu- 
lated, " Karl Kohl ! who would have thought of seeing him 
here ! " 

In a few minutes more they met, and after cordial salutations. 
Archer could not refrain from again expressing his surprise at 
seeing Herr Kohl. 

** It ist not so wunderbar that I befind myself here, mit my 
dear wife !" — and he pointed to Miss Lloyd with a bow. 

There was no doubt something in the expression of Archer's 
face which they both found perfectly irresistible, so that Mr. and 
Mrs. Karl Kohl laughed immoderately, till they were obliged to 
sit down upon a bank ; and Archer, perceiving how it all was, and 
catching the infection of their humour, sat down upon an opposite 
bank, and laughed too. 

After they had riecovered themselves, Mrs. Kohl proposed that 



THB DBEAMEB AND THE WORKER. 497 

they should return to the cottage. On their way thither, she 
made some casual remarks concerning her sister^ Ell^n, whereat 
Archer hecame suddenly silent. 

** Perhaps I ought to inform you," said Mrs. Kohl, " that my 
Bister was accompanied home hy Mary." 

Archer stopped short. 

** We had heard," continued Mrs. Kohl, «* that you were ai^i 
farm-house in this neighhourhood ; and in fact, our stroll this 
morning was chiefly with the intent to discoyer your lodgement. 
Mary is very anxious to see you." 

*• To see me ? " said Archer, " perhaps you are not aware — " 
there he paused. 

" Yes, I am," said Mrs. Kohl, ** I know all. I heg you will 
accompany us home." 

With the air of a man who, heing " perplexed in the extreme," 
slowly goes somewhere without intending it, and vaguely per- 
suades himself that he does not intend it, and that he is not 
really going there, because at any moment he can turn hack — 
Archer wsdked abreast of Mr. and Mrs. Karl Kohl, but keeping 
as far-off as the pathway allowed, until they arrived at the wicket 
gate of the cottage lawn. Here he paused again, and laying one 
hand upon the top of the little gatepost, said, " I think — " when 
Mrs. Kohl, taking him kindly by the arm, led him through the 
gate, and across the lawn. 

On entering the cottage, they were met by Mary. She held 
out her hand to Archer. He pressed it affectionately, and asked 
if she had forgiven him. ** You shall judge," said Mary, in a soft 
voice, leading him onward to the inner room. 

Before Archer very well knew where he was going, he found 
himself standing in the middle of the room, with Mary standing 
on one side of him ; and Ellen Lloyd, on the other, seated on a 
sofa, looking pale, as if about to faint. She appeared unable to 
rise from the sofa, and pressed one hand over her eyes. 

** Dear Edward Archer,'* said Mary, endeavouring in vain to 
speak without trepidation, ** I have known you only a few years,' 
but from the nature of our acquaintance, the opportimities I have 
had of estimating your fine qualities of heart and of intellect, have 
been too numerous not to leave an indelible conviction of your 
worth — a conviction which I never felt more strongly — and I may 
say, though it will seem a perversity and a weakness of nature— 
never so strongly as at the present moment. It is not that my 

NO. XXXVI. — VOL. YI. K K 



498 THE DREAMXB ASD THB WOBEGB' 

inward conTiction of my right course warers, nor that xny deciawHi 
falters, yet I feel now, for the first time, that there is much in yocu 
upon which I have never set a due value ; and the reason is, tha^ 
these things are not very well suited to my own nature and cha- 
racter ; and sympathies that have to be created or assumed hj 
habit and time, can never have the same genuine eflfect upon a 
man like yon> as those sympathies which are E^ntaneoua, and 
immediate." (She here took Archer and Ellen each by the hand.) 
' * But what I think of you in feeling and refinement, I caanot 
better prove than putting into your charge the treasured feeling of 
a pure and devoted heart.** As she said these words, she joined 
their hands, and retired a few paces behind Archer. 

Their hands trembled violently— Blleni turned her face upwards 
towards Archer, and the look with which he was bending over her, 
caused her to rise up, so that her head fell vsfoXL his breast, down 
which her golden hair fell in a stream, as he fdded his aarma 
roimd her. 

Archer turned towards Mary, but she had left the room, aad 

the door was closed. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MB. WALTON IN PRISON. — MESSRS. SHORT AND SAINTON, AND THE CREDITORS. 
—DEATH OF archer's UNCLE. — AN ASSOCIATED HOME. — AJICHER*S HESITA- 
TIONS AND ANXIETIES. 

In a narrow room, very imperfectly, not to say sadly lighted, by 
a small window, thickly coated with dust, and having an iron 
grating outside, sat Mr. Walton, in a meditating attitude. He 
took out his handkerchief, and applied it to his eyes. He returned 
it slowly to his pocket, and then fixed his gaze upon a newspaper, 
which was lying at his feet. The portion of the paper usually 
devoted to dissolutions of partnership — bankruptcies — ^the insolvent 
debtors' court, and dreary news of that kind, chanced to lie upper- 
most ; and it might have been supposed that he was meditating 
upon these things. But it so happened that this paper also con- 
tained accounts of fresh atrocities practised by Austria, in Italy, 
and Mr. Walton presently relieved his troubled breast by a 
soliloquy to an imaginary dungeon and chain in Venice. 

Just as the order arrived for him to be shot, after undergoing 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 499 

the torture of his beard being pulled out by a hair at a time, 
Mary entered, and seating herself by his side, informed him that 
his captivity would soon be terminated, as Messrs. Short and 
Bainton had arrived, and called a meeting' of the creditors. 

This meeting of creditors shortly took place. They behaved 
very well, on the whole, nor would there haVe been any disturbance 
or difficulty had all the statements and explanations been left to 
Mr. Bainton, as was originally intiended ; but Mr. Short would 
rush in with an oratorical display of his doings in Scotland, and 
his narrow escape in Galway, which created much discussion, and 
some dissension. At this point, Mr. Walton unfortunately advanced 
•* to the rescue,"— and then out came the whole affair of Titus 
Andronicus. A scene of some confusion ensued. The' squander- 
ings of money in absurdities — Wild scihemes — and irliprudences, 
were severely handled ; the failure, however, of Messrs. Bray and 
Toller, every one was obliged to regard as a genet&l misfortune, 
and ** the creditors" — kindly overiooking some things, and being 
considerate on other points — came to the resolution that they would 
be content with taking every farthing the insolvents possessed- 

Not many weeks after this, fortune smiled upon Mr. Bainton, 
who was re-instated in his building-yard by several merchants, 
two of whom frequented the same chapel. Equally fOrtttaate was 
Mr. Short, who suddenly found himself elected as agent of a 
Mining Company, in France, at a high salary. This position made 
him immediately resolve upon a "move" he had contemplated 
ever since his rejection by Mary, chiefly because it was an excellent 
move in itself, and also because it carried with it a considerable 
amount of vengeance. It- was that of making an offer of marriage 
to her aunt. He did so. It was declined — but with an air which 
betrayed a secret gratification, and gave every hope. 

About this time Archer received intelligence of the death of 
his uncle. With it came a brief notification that the will had 
been opened, in which his name was never mentioned. His 
uncle's property had been left to some distant relations in Canada, 
who had behaved very ill to Archer. 

Meantime, Mary had used her best energies to cheer her father, 
under his ruined circumstances — ruined also, as they were, in pro- 
spective hopes ; for the wealthy Miss Judith did actually confer the 
honour of her hand upon Mr. Short, with whom^ she immediately 
departed for the Continent. With equal activity Mary speedily 
reduced to practice the original project of Associated Homes, 

ee2 



500 THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. > 

which had failed from having heen commenced upon a large 
huilding scale, instead of a hoarding scheme. 

Mary commenced with one large house, which had four rooms 
on each floor. She had previously communicated her project 
to several friends, who cordially agreed to co-operate in her under- 
taking, — and the house was at once occupied hy Mary and her 
father, on the ground floor ; Karl Kohl and Mrs. Kohl, in the 
floor ahove them ; Mr. Bainton and a friend, in the floor ahove 
that ; and there was a proposal on the part of Mr. John Downs 
and his wife, to take the next floor ahove them, the attics heii^g 
occupied hy the servants. To the admission of Mr. Downs 
there was some difference of opinion. Mary feared he might he 
trouhlesome ; Mr. Walton said he would he intolerahle.; and Mr» 
Bainton's friend said he would he sure to '* set them all together 
hy the ears.*' Mr. Karl Kohl thought it would not he so; and 
Mr. Bainton gave it as his decided opinion that Mr. Downs would 
hehave very well, provided his wife were with him. " Ha ! ha ! " 
shrewdly ohserved Mr. Walton, " I see — I see ! no doubt some 
terrific tartar of a woman. His spirit of (^position ha« ne 
chance with her. But what shall we do with such a woman in 
the house 1" 

The Associated Home commenced, and worked admirably ; the 
expenses of each family being, by this means, reduced to less 
than one half they would have amounted to, had the parties taken 
similar rooms in different houses. It worked well also, as to cor- 
diality, notwithstanding that Mr. John Downs was domiciled on the 
third floor. His wife was a little woman, with fair hair, a sweet 
low voice, and a gentle dove-like manner. She agreed to every- 
thing he said ; but she always had her way, while he fancied he 
had his, and they were both happy. 

It was not long before Mary had a conversation with Mr. 
Bainton, as to the possibility of founding an Institute, which 
should actually be for mechanics and artizans. Mr, Bainton 
shook his head. Mary explained that she meant no magnificent 
building — no regular establishment, with all its expensive arrange- 
ments and appointments necessarily corresponding with it — but 
a building, or large hall, bare and dreary as the fortunes of those 
who were invited to assemble there, to attend lectures, or for 
mutual improvement, by social conversation and beneficial amuse- 
ments. Mr. Bainton, after a pause, again shook his head, but by 
no means so hopelessly as at first. He said he knew of a capital . 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. 501 

l)uil(ling, or rather position for one, for it was all in ruins. He 
did not see how it could be managed ; and thus the conversation 
ended for the present. 

But let us take a glance at the farm-house in Wales, where 
Archer was residing. At times he was perfectly happj, because 
he was continually in the society of Ellen Lloyd, with whom he 
totally forgot his circumstances ; he forgot the past, and finding 
an elysium in the present, his imagination scarcely wandered into 
the future. When he was alone, and reviewed his day, he did 
not sophisticate himself with the pompous popular philosophy, 
which contemns all enjoyment of the present, and, by way of being 
•perfectly inconsistent with itself and its devotion to the practical, 
asserts that there is nothing so excellent and noble as the dream 
of the past and the dream of the future. But what Archer could 
not reconcile with himself, was the melancholy fact that he was 
not in a fair and reasonable position to enjoy the present, while 
his future was so very precarious. For EUen Lloyd he enter- 
tained a devoted affection ; but this very feeling made him hesi- 
* tate, and delay their union. Since her sister's marriage she had 
barely sufficient for her own maintenance ; and ought he to 
involve her in his difficult circumstances, which were likely to 
become worse and worse, — ^unless, indeed, his philosophical novel 
redeemed them. 



CONCLUSION. 

FATE OF THE "THREE WISE MEN" — AN AUTHOR'S GOOD ANOEL — ADDRESS 

TO ARTIZANS BT A WORKING MAN — ARCHER AND HARDING MART AND 

ELLEN . — THE INSTITUTE AND THE ORGAN — THE IDEAL^ AND THE 
PRACTICAL. 

" Messrs. * and * , present their compliments to 

Mr. Archer, and beg to inform him that the way in which they 
do business is to publish works on commission, the author pay- 
■ ing all expenses of print, paper, advertisements, &,c.^' Another : 
** Messrs. Harridge and Fenn would be happy to be informed 
if the author of the * Three Wise Men ' intends publishing his 
work on his own account, or by private subscription ; if the latter, 
would be glad to be favoured with a sight of the names intended 

to stand at the head of the list.** Another : *• Messrs. * 

and Son return their best thanks to Mr. Edward Archer for his 
-obliging offer of his philosophical novel entitled the ' Three Wise 



502 !rHE DBEAMSB .ASJ> THS <W0IIEEB. 

Hen,' the maxmscript of which they hi^e diligently perused wiA 

much pleasure^ and regret to Bay they are compelled to decline 

its publication." Another: "Messrs. Tooley and Grim beg to 

return the romance of the * Three Wise Men/ with many thanks, 

the publication of which, their literary friend recommends them 

not to undertake ; though he was of opinion that if the author 

would sufficiently modify the three principal characters, so that 

they should be recognised as three well-known living persons a 

in fashionable or public life, the work might perhaps be made J 

to take rank with some of the most successful noyek of the 

season." 

There were several others, concluding with — " the publicatum 
of which they beg to decline." The last one was not very intel- 
ligible, at a first reading : — ** Sir, we have placed your work 
entitled * Discoveries in Science ' in the hands of a gentleman 
emiuent for his scientific knowledge, who is of opinion that your 
book is one of great intrinsic value, but that the sale would be 
extremely limited. The expenses for diagrams and tables of 
calculations would be very considerable. Under these circuna- 
stanees you will perceive that we cannot undertake the publica- 
tion except at the authors cost, (be." Two notes placed in the 
wrong envelopes, readily presented the solution of this puzzle, the 
note intended for Archer having no doubt been transmitted to the 
equally unfortunate devotee of science. 

** These letters and notes," murmured Archer, in reverie, 
" display the first fruits of my assiduous labours — my study and . 

thought, my earnest toils, and pains, and exultations through the || 

day and night, my aspirations and my hopes, my expectations and 
anxieties. Fruits, did I call them ? say raUier, the first blights 
which almost invariably fall upon the literary tree, ere the season 
arrive when the sun and the earth, the rains and the winds, are 
likely to become propitious, — if that period ever arrive. Some 
crude youths rush out at once, bare-headed, into the public air, 
and a fortunate sun bursts down upon them ; others come forth, 
armed in proof, after long watchings, and find nothing but clouds 
over-head, and a dead-wall in front. In these cases, what is left 
to those who have something within them worth suffering for, but 
fortitude and patient endurance? Meantime, what becomes of 
the human being — his real life — ^his domestic relations or posi- 
tion? What becomes of personal happiness? Nothing lies 
before his actual path but chagrin, anguish, and all the mean 



.TBS JmE^HBR AKD TSB WOIUqSR. '503 

troubles of life ; nothing floa^ before bis Tision but the dark 
spectre of his own fallacious hope ! •" 

The day on which Archer sat, indulging in this depressing 
soliloquy, with all the publishers' notes spread out on the table, 
and Uie rejected manuscript of the '* Thre^ Wise Men '' lying 
with sad sprawling leaves up in one corner of the room, — was 
singularly bright. The sun shone directly upon the window, 
and Archer had risen and closed the shutters, the bnghtness 
being so utterly at Tariance with his thoughts and fedings. 
Through the aperture, however, a golden light streamed across 
the room, just as he had uttered the last words, and the door 
. softly opening, Ellen Lloyd came gMding in,*-*inaking a picture 
which Rembrandt might have painted under the title of '' A Poor 
Author receiving a visit from his Good Angel." 

We cannot possibly do better than leave him in such hands. 
In some such ways as this, whether in vision or realty, genius 
finds, if not its full reward, at least its heart's consolation and its 
spirit's blissful rest. 

Meantime, very great advances and improvements had taken 
place in the ''Associated Home," near Gosport ; for by its 
excellent management it presented so many advantages, that 
many more proposals to become inmates were made, than eould be 
acc^ted, however eligible. Mary had already, in the course of a 
few months, added the houses on each side, as vrings to the one 
with which she had commenced, and more rooms were still 
needed by constant applicants. The projected ** Institute for 
Artizans" had also been well set on foot. Mr. Bainton had 
obtained possession of the ground, with the whole dilapidated 
building upon it, and a new and spacious hall had so(m risen, and 
a day for the opening of the new Institute was fixed. It was 
announced that the proceedings of the evening would be commenced 
with an Address to Artizans by a W(H*king Man. 

Many were the friends to whom invitations were sent to be 
present at the opening of the Institute, and among others, Mary 
and the rest were of course anxious that Archer should come*— 
with his wife. Good angels do not visit melancholy poets to no 
purpose ; and Archer and Ellen Lloyd were now happy beyond 
expression. - 

The evening arrived, and the great hall-^bare of all (»*nament, 
but spacious, lofty, substantial, warm, and skilfully ventilated — 
was adorned, in spirit, with crowded heads of thinking artificers 



504 THE DBSAKEB Aim THE WOBKEB. 

and mechanics. Every seat was full, and eyerj |)ulse was beating 
with a novel emotion — one that might be interpreted into the feel- 
ing that here, at last, was the means of knowledge, and of 
improved social intercourse, so much talked of, and boasted — ^but 
from whose arena all these actuallj working mechanics had been 
hitherto comparatively excluded. 

Mr. Sainton, as chairman of the committee of the Institute, first 
ascended the platform. He stated, in his brief way, the design 
and intentions of the Institution, and that its main difference from 
all others, similar in designation, was simply that it was to he 
exactly what it was called — and nothing more ; — but to be as much 
as that, he thought a new thing, and a good one. It had been 
announced that an Address would be made to them by a working 
man. Before introducing this man, he, Mr. Bainton, would merely 
say, that by the use of the term working man, he did distinctly 
mean one who worked with his hands — and that the building in 
which they now were, which had risen above the old ruins in 
so short a space of time, owed its existence in a great measure to 
the hands of this same man. The applause they gave was no 
more than deserved. In conclusion, he had to say, that being 
without family, he, Mr. Bainton, had seen no one whom he so 
much wished to adopt as his son, as the man in question — ^who, 
however, had gratefully declined to avail himself of any position 
in society to which this might lead, and had declared his resolution 
never to leave his class — and that in the event of becoming — as he 
should become — the possessor of property, he would still work as 
a man among his own men — still be a mechanic or artizan with 
them — and never appear in any other character, or acknowledge 
any other designation. With him, moreover, the first idea of this 
Institution had originated. 

Mr. Bainton retired amidst great and most sincere applause, 
which was shared by the man who now ascended the platform to 
address the assembled crowd. 

Archer started at the sight of him, and half rose from his seat. 
The altered appearance in figure, and expression of face — ^both 
so much refined by suffering and inward efforts — ^were deeply 
affecting. What Harding, said in this address. Archer was in a 
state of mind far too tumultuous to apprehend with any clearness. 
All he collected at intervals showed him that Harding had been in 
Italy, and that he had joined the patriots in their struggle against 
Austrian tyranny, and all its atrocities of vengeance and cruelty — 



THE DREAMER AND THE WORKER. O05 

and that besides fightiog among the patriots, he had instructed 
and aided the insurgents of Naples and Sicily in building boats 
to assist their operations. The closing words Archer distinctly 
heard : — 

" Friends — Brothers — Fellow- workmen ! Let us all be of one 
mind in this ; that while we seek to obtain a just, an adequate 
reward for the sweat of the brow, we are not to forget that we 
haye intellects to cultivate as well as earth to till — understandings 
to fabricate and discipline, and imaginations to fill with visions of 
beauty and of strength, as well as hands to. hew wood and to draw 
water. I was taught this by the only spiritual pastor and master 
I ever had, and I shall only use words after hina when I say to you, 
let the workmen of all countries look at the stupendous edifices 
that adorn their cities — whether St. Peter's at Rome, or St. 
Paul's in London — and let them feel. Our hands built all these 
things, which other and higher minds saw in dreams before 
us. Let us, then, reverence their 'visions and their faculties 
divine,' but say to ourselves, we also have souls' to ascend, hearts 
of large scope, and minds for higher acts than any political insti- 
tutions have yet taken into their calculations. And some day we 
also will build according to our own designs ; but humbly and in 
homely fashion at first, as in these walls which now surround us." 

Harding descended amidst prolonged plaudits. Many pressed 
hastily towards him ; but the first that took him by the hand was 
Mary. "Let me," said she, "assist you in this great work." It 
was too much — ^the tears gushed into the strong man's eyes — 
more copiously when on turning aside, he found his other hand 
pressed by Archer. 

It is scarcely necessary to state a sequel which must be obvious. 
Harding and Mary were soon afterwards married, all their friends 
being present at the wedding, except Archer, who had a bad cold. 
The utmost cordiality existed ever after between Archer and 
Harding, and all the circle. They frequently paid each other 
visits. Archer continued to write poetry, for a future time, as he 
hoped ; and as their means of life were very indifferent, Ellen, 
recollecting the example of Michael Salter, became organist of a 
little Welsh church, which small addition amply sufficed. 

Thus does each dream and work, and work and dream, according 
to his own nature ; and the world, in its very slow way, becomes 
wiser and better with its years, by the labours of its best thinkers 
and doers. 



506 



PEACE HE HATH PROMISED I 



** Peace I leave with you. My peace I give unto yon. 

Peace He hath promised ! O'er thy lone heart's sadness^ J 

On wings of healing, let this whisper steal, ■] 

And breathe around a still and holy gladness, ] 

Such joy as seraphs need not blush to feel. ij 

Peace He hath promised ! When the tie is broken 

That to earth bound thee with a giant chain, 
O'er the loud tempest of thy grief be spoken 

The " Peace ! be still ! " that calmed the troubled main. 

Peace He hath promised ! When thy faith is shaken 

In truth and love of those 'twas bliss to trust, 
When the fond heart, in every hope mistaken, 

Finds its bright future crumbled into dust : 

Peace He hath promised ! Gather meekly round thee 

The shattered fragments of each human tie ; 
His love is greater than the love that bound thee 

To aught created that can change or die. 

Peace He hath promised ! When the darksome valley 

Its ghastly terror flings around thy head, 
Let thy faint heart in strong assuranee rally— 

Thy God and Brother died to xs^ the dead ! 

Mrs. Acton Tinpal. 



ART-MANUFACTURE UNION PROPOSED AND 

CONSIDERED. 

ADDRESSED TO THE ARTISTS, ART-PATRONS, AND MANUFACTITRERS 



OF ENGIiAND. 



Gentlfj^een, — We seek to draw your attention to the possibility 
of founding an Art-Manufacture Union in this country — a UnioD 
that shall be co-operative with, and a help to, that existing for the 
advancement of painting and sculpture. We would also recQza- 



ABT-MANUPACTURE UNION. 507 

mend io jour earnest consideration, some means which may render 
Schools of Design self-supporting, and enable the manufacturer 
of this country to compete in the elegance of the designs that 
shall he imprinted upon their cotton and other goods, with any 
market in the world. 

The birth of the present Art-Union gave rise to a warm paper- 
warfare — some penholders contending that the institution of an 
Art lottery would debase the profession it was created to elevate ; 
while more sanguine and impartial writers hailed the creation of 
the Union as the dawning of a bright era in Art : the latter critics 
were the justest. An Art-Union is certainly a lottery — so is any 
commercial speculation. 

Commerce is a game of chance — a game of hazard. Does the 
commercial risk debase the speculator, or the man with whom he 
speculates ? It has been said that Art-Unions encourage the pro- 
duction of mediocre and inferior pictures : this assertion is a 
fallacy on the face of it. What artist would paint an inferior pic- 
tm'e, in the hope of selling it as the lOZ. prize ? What artist 
would not rather strive to deserve selection by the holder of the 
3002. ticket? Artists — ^no longer fettered by the ill-educated 
taste of rich patrons — no longer depending upon the caprice of 
incompetent individuals — will have free scope for the full exercise 
of their imagination and cultivated execution. It cannot be 
denied that the perfection and extension of the principles of Art- 
Unions may emancipate artists from the thraldom of monied igno- 
- ranee, and give to the profession generally a stability and an 
elevation which have hitherto been monopolised by the R.A.'s of 
the kingdom. The system of government and election at the 
Royal Academy is little known, and too exclusive to confer artistic 
honours on the artistic genius of the kingdom. The Royal 
Academicians do not represent British Art. Is the President of 
the Royal Academy at the head of his profession ? Is Sir Martin 
Archer Shee a greater artist than Goodall, or J. W. Allen, or 
Inskipp? 

''Educate the taste of the people before you establish Art- 
Unions," has been the constant cry of superficial thinkers. To 
such it may not be unnecessary to say — the surest way to correct 
bad taste is to present good models. You want to create a sound 
artistic taste in the people : give them, then, high works of Art ; 
show them the artistic genius of the country ; open to them exhi- 
bitions that shall include all excellent works, without personal 



508 ART-MANUFACTURE UNION". 

distinction ; and give the unknown man who has executed a ftrst-rate 
work, equal place with the established favourite. Hang the works 
according to their merit, not according to the station and position 
of the artist. In short, be ever anxious to advance merit in 
whomsoever it may be found — be he lord or labourer. 

An earnest love of Art, for Art's sake, must be spread through- 
out the length and • breadth of the land, ere the British school 
can claim equal rank with the Roman, Florentine, and Spanish 
schools. Nor in the distribution of pictures alone can this great 
end be accomplished. Pictures are generally but the ornaments 
of a homestead, and are often unnoticed for many consecutive 
months. They hang against the walls, and are hung there 
because they take from the nakedness of the room. You hear 
people say "Pictures do look comfortable about one." Not 
because they are fine embodiments of fine ideas do these people 
consider pictures ** such comfortable things," but because they 
fill up a room, and impart a sense of comfort — of luxury to it. 
Many people regard paintings in the light of mere furniture, und 
buy a Wouvermans or a Carlo Dolce as they would buy a four-post 
bedstead. Such people are wholly ignorant of artistic excellence ; 
their taste is vitiated and their eye untaught ; they have no 
standard of beauty — no colouring offends them, and bad drawing 
(if it be not atrociously bad) they pass unnoticed. 

This acknowledged evidence of the influence of external objects 
upon the minds of the uneducated, leads at once to the theory 
upon which this proposition for the establishment of an Art^Manu- 
faoture Union is founded. We believe, with Leigh Hunt, that ** it 
seems as if an unhandsome action before the portrait of a noble 
female countenance would be impossible;'* and this belief (shared 
as it is with so illustrious a man) has firmly convinced us that a 
Union, such as we are about to propose, would be powerful for the 
enlightenment and refinement of the people of Britain. The eye 
is quickly educated and quickly vitiated. Ever familiar with mis- 
shapen and colourless objects, its sense of the beautiful in form 
and colour is soon blunted, if not wholly lost ; and all who are lost 
to the beautiful in Art, and (as a natural consequence) to the 
beautiful in Nature, are deprived of one of the most refining of 
our intellectual enjoyments. On the other hand, the eye long 
used to receive the beautiful in fomr, and the harmonious in colour- 
ing, carries so many grand and glorious images to the mind^ 
{which are lost, be it observed, to the uneducated pupil,) that 



ART-MANUFACTURE UNION. 50^ 

progressive refinement in the individual is almost an unvarying con- 
sequence. A story is told of a Catholic money-lender, who was pro- 
bably accustomed to study the old masters, and who, when he was 
going to cheat a customer, always drew a veil over the portrait of 
his favourite saint. That the national .taste of this country requires 
education, no person who has made Art a study, or who is alive to 
the beautiful, will deny ; and the most important point to be con- 
sidered in an endeavour to propagate, a high standard as the appeal 
to which artists shall bring their labours, is the method whereby 
the national taste may be most eiFectually cultivated. Books and 
treatises on Art will not effect this object. Art is not fostered by 
a nation of critics. Critics often fetter the men whose works they 
criticise, by judging their works comparatively, and not positively. 
The English school does not need the patronage of men who can 
compare a picture by Turner with .a Claude,, or Maclise's 
masterpiece with the noblest production of Michael Angelo ; 
it requires an immediate recognition of positive excellence, 
rather than a learned comparison with old masters. If it 
be the object of English Art patrons to produce, a school in 
England based upon the old schools of Italy and Germany, then 
is a numerous critical tribunal useful and indispeiisable ; but if, 
on the other hand, the object of Art patrons be to foster a school 
of progressive Art, then is a national recognition of. positive merit 
their surest reliance. And inasmuch as it. is the belief of most 
people that the advancement of a progressive school of Art is the 
aim of the more enlightened portion of the community, we put 
strong faith in our conviction that an Art-Manufacture Union 
will find favour in the minds of the artists. Art patrons, and 
manufacturers of this country. We want, a school that will 
generate new thoughts and embody new ideas, not an academy 
bent upon reproducing old masters. Taking for granted, then, 
that this advancement of a progressive school is the ambitiqn of - 
all interested in the welfare of English artists, it requires no inor- 
dinate taxation of the reasoning faculties to comprehend at once 
the intimate connection of Art-Manufacture with the dissemina- 
tion of pure taste, and. consequently its influence upon the 
advancement of the Fine. Arts in the country. The distribution 
of fine pictures alone will not purify the taste of the people. This 
purification — this refinement — can be brought about only by a 
thorough revolution in the household decorations and appoint- 



510 AnT-MAMUFACTURE URlOy* 

vents of the nation ; and this revolution may be gradually but 
surely effected by means of the proposed Unicm. 

An Art-Manufacture Union would substitute useful household 
articles, designed by eminent men, for the tasteless, misshapen 
utensils now in general use. The proposed Union would distii- 
bute such prizes as Townshend's Beer Jug — ^an article in common 
use, and beautiful to the eye, and suggestire to the mind. The 
Union would, in fact, spread Art-Manufacture after the fashion 
designed lately under the superintendence of Felix Summerly, 
on an extended scale, throughout the country. To such a Union, 
poor people would contribute, because the certainty of receiv- 
ing the value of their subscription, in the shape of some useful 
utensil, would enable them to afford the price of a ticket. In the 
establishment of this Union, let the present system of distribution 
be extended on the most liberal principles, and allow non-sub- 
scribers to become purchasers of any article at its market value. 
When the idea of this Union was first conceived, its adoption ap* 
peared to be encumbered by so many obstacles that we were about 
to abandon it as an impossible proposition, had not a closer con- 
sideration of the subject fixed in our mind a sense of the simpli- 
city of the means whereby the objects of this Union might be 
effected. 

The first stumbling-block we set aside was the difficulty that ^ 
would attend the manufacture of artists' designs by the Union. 
It at first appeared to us, that either the committee must cause a 
large stock of designs to be executed, or themselves select the 
prizes ; and it is obvious that these alternatives are very great 
objections to the plan, inasmuch as the former proceeding would 
leave a large stock of goods on the Society's hands, while the 
latter would partially frustrate the immediate object of the Society 's 
foundation, because it would compel the subscribers to abide by 
the taste of the committee. It afterwards occurred to us, that' 
these difficulties might be surmounted by the exhibition of designs 
which should be executed in any material that would bring them 
within the amount of the prizes, when the said design had been 
selected by the prize-holders. This method would effectually do 
away with the above objections, and at once simplify the principle 
of an Art-Manufacture Union. The subjects of the designs should 
include all household furniture, both the useful and the orna- 
mental. The sale of the copyright of these designs would be a 



ART-MANUFACTURE UNION. 511 

source of considerable income to the Society. The manufacturers 
would he glad to become purchaser of the productions of our 
most eminent men ; and so our patterns might he equal to our 
fabrics. This Union must he a national institution, not a private 
speculation. Its sole object must be the advancement of Art, and 
not the pecumary gain of some few speculative individuals. 

The more we consider the component parts of the whole, the 
more are we convinced that the institution we propose is soundly 
based and potent for good to Art. It is true that it will take 
years to spread the principles of this plan throughout the country ; 
but it is also true, that when the machinery which we suggest shall 
be in full operation, the taste of the people will become more healthy, 
the Arts of this country will be encouraged to activity, and the 
British school will stand alone in its originality ; in positive excel- 
lence claiming to be ranked with the grand old schools of the 
continent. 

We have alluded to the sale of the copyrights of the Art-Manu- 
facture Union designs, and observed that such sale would yield a 
considerable income to the institution. We do not meau to infer 
hereby, that the artist's conception shall be undervalued ; we pro- 
pose that the value of his design shall be half the value of the 
prize-holder's ticket and half the valuation put upon his work by 
the manufacturer. For instance, if the 200L prize selected by 
the holder be a tea-service, the artist will receive 10021. for his 
design ; and if a manufacturer, for the copyright of this same 
design, give 300Z., the artist shall receive one-half of this sum, so 
that altogether he will have received 2501, for his design — The 
prize-holder will have a tea-service, the material of which will cost 
100?., and the institution will olear the sum of 150?. by the trans- 
action. With the proceeds from the copyrights we propose that 
the institution shaU lay the foundation of a National Gallery of the 
Works of British Artists, which shall include the best specimens 
of our greatest painters, dead or living, that can be obtained. 

As regards the specimen of Art-Manufacture to be presented 
to each subscriber, we should propose that certain articles, such as 
smaU tankards, ink-stands, salt-spoons, &c., be kept ready made, 
feo as to allow the single ticket holders a choice, while the holders 
of a dozen tickets should be allowed to choose to the value of their 
subscription from the manufactures kept on hand by the Society. 
Furthermore, the rules of the Society should compel them to dis- 
pose of all objects that might remain after the subscribers for the 



512 ART-MANUPAOTURE UNIOIT. 

current year had made their selection ; so that each succeeding 
year might hring forth new heauties from the imagination of native 
genius. 

The formation of an Art-Manufacture Union would give to 
Schools of Design the impetus which they lack at present. And it 
has occurred to the writer of this paper, that a close connection 
might he cultivated hetween the Schools of Design and the Union, 
BO that the one might contribute to the advancement of the other ; 
while the co-operation of both .would tend to hasten the consum- 
mation which it is the professed intention of both to promote. 

It should, moreover, be in the power of the Schools of Design 
directors to decide upon the merits of their pupils* works, and to offer 
to the coDunittee of the Art-Manufacture Union such designs as they 
might judge to be worthy of public exhibition. The copyrights oi 
all designs drawn by the pupils of a School of Design, and exhibited 
at the request of a School of Design director, should be the pro- 
perty of the school to which the artist belongs — a regulation that 
would yield an income proportionate to the excellence of the schools, 
and tend to make them self-supporting. In return for this sacri- 
fice of their designs on the part of pupils, each student whose 
design had been selected by a prize-holder, and the copyright of 
which had been purchased, should be entitled to exhibit in future 
on his own account, paying during his stay with his school a certain 
per centage of the remuneration he might receive for his works. 

The co-operation of our manufacturers may, we think, be rea- 
sonably relied upon. It is to their interest that their goods should 
equal in every particular (in design as well as in fabric) the manu- 
factures of foreigners ; and we are certain, not only that the 
manufacturers of this country would promise their support to an 
institution such as we have proposed, but that they would hail its 
foundation and success with sincere pleasure, and give to native 
talent the patronage which the ill-education of their countrymen 
now compels them to confer upon strangers. That the manufac- 
turers of tliis country have not come forward to uphold the Schools 
of Design now in operation, is not owing to their aversion to the 
principle of such Schools, but to their sense of their present im- 
potency. We contend that our Art-Manufacture Union will in a 
measure remove the objections at present entertained with regard 
to Schools of Design, by giving to these schools an immediate and 
a defined object. The talents of the pupils will find instantaneous 
recognition, and they will work with their reward in sight. 



I 



THE dress-maker's THRUSH. 513 

We believe that we have said enough concerning the influence of 
Art, and with regard to the possibility and advantage of gathering 
together a British Art-Manufacture Union, to recommend our pro- 
position to the attention of the Art-patrons^ artists, and manufac- 
turers of this country. 

W. B. J. 



« THE DRESS-MAKER'S THRUSH. 

Oh 'tis the brightest morning 

Out in the laughing street, 
That ever the round earth flashed into 

The joy of May to meet ; 
Floods of more gleaming sunshine, 

Never the eye saw rolled 
Over pavement and chimney and cold gray spre 

That turns in the light to gold ; 
And yet, as she wearily stitches, 

She hears her caged thrush sing, 
Oh would it never were May, green May — 

It never were bright, bright Spring I 

Light of the new-bom verdure ! 

Glory of jocund May I 
What gladness is out in leafy lanes ! 

What joy in the fields to-day ! 
What sunbursts are in the woodlands ! 

What blossoms the orchards throng ! 
The meadows are snowed with daisy stars. 

And the winds are thrilled with song ; 
And yet, as ever she stitches, 

She hears her caged thrush sing. 
Oh would it never were May, green May — 

It never were bright, bright Spring ! 

Close is the court and darkened, 

On which her bare room looks, 
Whose only wealth is its wall's one print, 

And its mantel's few old books. 
Her spare cold bed in the comer. 

Her single worn, worn chair, 
And the grate that looks so rasty and dull 

As never a fire were there ; 

NO. XXXYT. — ^VOL. VI, L L 



514 SOMETHINOB ABOUT SOMBTHIKO OR ANOTHER. 

And iheref a8«he stitches and stitehes^ 

She hears her caged thrush sing, 
Oh would it never were May, green May- 
It never were bright, bright Spring ! 

Out, is the gleaming sunshine, 

Out, is the golden air, 
In, — scarce a gleam of the bright May sun 

Can, dulled and dim, reach there. 
In darkness close and foul to be breathed 

That blanches her cheek to white, 
Her rounded features sharpen and thin, 

And dulls her onceJieeii sight ; 
And there she stitches and stitches^ 

She and her caged thrush sing : 
. Oh would it never were May, green May — 

It never were bright, bright Spring ! 

Days that are clouded and dull, 

Winter — ^though Winter bring 
Cold keen frost to her fireless room, 

Are dearer to her than Spring ; 
For then on her weary sewing. 

Less often her worse thou^ts come 
Of the pleasant lanes and the country air 

And the field-paths trod by some. 
And so, as she wearily stitches, 

She and her caged thrush sing : 
Oh would it never were May, green May — 

It never were bright, bright Spring ! 

Osborne Place, BlackhecUh, W, C. Bennett. 



f 



SOMETHINGS ABOUT SOMETHING OR ANOTHER. 

BY WILLIAM THOM. 

Last Spring, Jamie, my own little boy, and I went out in search 
of plants for our new garden ; the house long unoccupied, the garden 
revelled in all the democracy of weeds^ and various and fat were 
the reptiles that roosted in the disorder. Oh ! man, what & 
moral grows in a neglected garden ! On our way homewards we 
stumbled upon heaps of roots outside a garden wall, all consigned 
dead ; turned them over and over again ; found one root with 
symptoms of existence upon it ; planted it in our bleak garden> 



SOMETHINGft ABOUT SOSlETHINa OB ANOTHER. 515 

ticketed, *' Foundling flower, if flower je be ; " meet emblem of 
the withered ones of many erewhile cast out — ill-sorted things ! 
Nothing of the green of bjegone isunny dap. iNotbing now to 
tell us how much a fayourite was onoe this withered one I Will it 
live ? — ^we shall see. Was it well cared for by its patron, he of 
the high wall ? or was it petted, pruned, and fashioned a^r the 
blasting conceits <^ a protector, a patron ? Bid it turn sick at 
last and shapeless — drcM^ped, and was cast away ? Wdl, let us 
and Nature try it ooce more. Come, thou Foundling weakly ; yes, 
come, there is juice in your haggard heel, albeit, waxing power- 
less; come, though no yerdure on your describeless and ruii^ 
limbs ; yet, if there is life within thee, God and our guiding will 
try. You shall ecHne forth in due time, and giye us your name. 
What were you like last summer, you ragged one ? You will tell it, 
amd tell it truly ; you cannot cheat us as we can cheat each 
other. God's truth has ne?er been forsaken in you, diauantled 
as you are, for sunny summer will reveal thy name ; winter only 
concealed what it could not destroy. Pity it should be so much 
the reverse with us by whom you were cultured, possessed, 
caressed, and ruined ! What flower of many hues replaced 
thee, thou outcast ? It may be, alas ! the hand that nourished 
thee is cold — for such will be, even there ; and garden walls 
were high indeed to screen from death and sorrow ! 

I saw in Pere la Chaise, where the very foppery of sentiment 
revels, where dead flowers, marble and candlesticks, pass rare 
substitutes for son*ow — where menials are paid and harnessed to 
cultivate a proxy grief, a mourning in stones and botany — I saw 
there one tomb all but obscured in weeds, and worthless-looking 
things — that was an untended grave. 

Weeds ! who spoke of weeds ? Bat it is the world's expression ;. 
an unfashionable flower is called a weed. Jenny Lind, ye jewel bird I 
peerless in mind, as matchless out of heaven's own songsters ! Lon£ 
may it so be ! Ye, even ye, are a garden flower ; or it may be. 
rather a garden bird ; — all one matter that. Sheltered, shaded, and 
well to do ; woi-thy of much, but so sheltered and so shaded ; think 
of its sad uncertainty. Who now hold the blessing of seeing — of 
hearing you ? A very, very small number of God's humble family of 
man. Your sister, the lady lark, who " at Heaven's gate sings," is 
she unheard by the lowly ? Nay — how is it then that Jenny Lind, a 
lovelier lark, may not be heard by those of the labourer's lot ? 
Well, well, let us be happy to know, and knowing, submit to toil 

L l2 



516 SOHETHINa ABOUT DIHPLES. 

and tear on. Let no ill-natured stupid grumbler for a moment think 
that his narrowed loaf and dismal home has aught to do with it ; 
no, let him rather patiently consider the mission of the seraph 
Swede as a something not meant for him. Let him rejoice to 
hear that Jenny Lind touches the souls of some who were hitherto 
supposed to be badly supplied with that commodity. Yes, she 
has melted those hearts known to be imperturbable to God*s will or 
to man's sorrow. Bless you ! your angel song cannot fail. As 
your notes rise, bread will fall. Then, pour it forth on the 
gilded rocks that buy you. To the mighty inclusives sing, and 
soften them. Cottagers and weakly brats — sunken hearts and 
sallow cheeks — ^fireless hearths — withered women and degraded 
men implore thee, Jenny Lind, to sing, sing and soften ! 

^t ^t ^P ^P ^F ^F 

Well, the Foxmdling. Is it not curious that on each of his 
three grey branches there appeared one bud? so late too — 
November! Shade of Linneeus, assist me, that posterity may 
learn the history of our Foundling Flower. 



SOMETHING ABOUT DIMPLES, 

THEIR USE AND ORIOIN. 



Your Helen's eye it speaketh yet, 

May be with half its former sheen, 
And that same cheek where roses met 

May lack the brightness that hath been. 
Time, onward in his withering stride. 

Will dim the eye, will sear the skin ; 
But yon kirk-yard alone can hide 

That dimple on your Helen's chin. 

But guess ye how her dimple 's made ? 

I'll tell, for that full well I know— 
A naughty little angel stray'd. 

To have a frolic here below ;— 
The infant Helen cradled lay, 

All fair as aught of earth might be ; 
Heaven's tiny truant pass'd that way 

To see — whatever he could see. 



THE GALLANT GLAZIER. 517 

" My eye ! what have we here 1 " he cries— 

" Can earth claim all this pretty elf I 
Or is it one hath left the skies, * - 

To go a roaming like myself 1" / 

He touched the eyebrow — ^touched the cheek — 

He rued she was of moital kin ; 
Kissing the lips, o'er-young to speak, 

He delved yon dimple with his chin. 

These fairy honey cups at first 

Were formed for folks beneath the sky, 
Till, mad beyond all mortal thirst, 

Some jolly angels drain'd them dry. 
Dear woman — mindful aye enough — 

Found smirks and sighs, and sulks and tears, 
The very, very kind of stuff 

To lull her domineering deai's. 

Man eats as he had never err'd — 

He drinks as he had never eaten 
Yon deadly fruit ; nor wisely cared 

What thorny ways it lured his feet in. 
He, mildly thankful, happy man — 

The cup is his — ^the power is given 
To make the most that e*er he can 

Of all the cast-by bits of heaven. 

October, 184:7, W. T. 



THE GALLANT GLAZIER ; 

OB, THE MYSTERY OF RIDLEY HALL. 

PART I.— THE DISCOVERY. 

Nothing is more improbable than truth. Fiction, with all its 
ingenious combinations and extravagant inventions, falls so short 
of the strange incidents which chequer life, that it is a common- 
place to say truth is stranger than fiction. When, therefore, a 
' writer is about to narrate something which he knows will startle 
your credulity, he always tells you that his story is an account of 
what actually occurred. Tales, ** founded on fact," are notorious 
for the insolence of their improbability. 

The story I am about to narrate is one which you may believe> 



518 THE 6ALLAKT QLAZIEB. 

or not, just as- yon feel disposed ; so that it atauaes yon I shall be 
content. True, it is not, in the sense of an exact relation of eir- 
cmnstances ; but the most eztraordinaiy part of it is true, and 
that part you will discredit. Be it so. I heard an excellent 
clergyman, in whose parish it occurred, relate the anecdote which 
forms the groimdwork of the story, and this anecdote I have been 
pleased to tell you. in my own way. 

About thirty years ago the village of Aston was never without 
one fruitful source of conjectural gossip, let the times be as 
uneventful as they might ; and that one subject was the mystery 
of Ridley Hall. 

Ridley Hall was an ancient abbey formed into a modem resi- 
dence, with a considerable display of architectural pretension. 
Embosomed "high in lofty trees," it had a singularly remote 
and unfamiliar aspect. All the smiling magnificence and hospita- 
lity of a country house were absent. It looked grand and sullen, 
inaccessible and forbidding. Festivity never made riot within its 
walls. It was never lighted up for hospitable enjoyments. No 
visitors stayed there ; scarcely a carriage rolled up its lordly drive 
to make a call upon the squire. In lonely grandeur the place was 
shut out from the rest of the world, as if it had been a hermitage. 

The squire himself was seldom seen. There was a mystery 
about him ^hich much occupied the curiosity of the village gossips, 
but occupied it in vain. He was excessively reserved, but cour- 
teous in his manner, even to the humblest peasant ; a liberal 
landlord ; a great supporter of all charitable institutions ; a man 
against whom no charge of wrong was ever brought. Many of 
those who worked for him, and who were his tenants, had never 
seen his face. His steward transacted all business ; and it was 
only by an accidental meeting in the fields or lanes of his own 
estate, that people had any chance of seeing him. 

An air of settled melancholy was on his face, and subdued its 
Btcmness ; while the polished manner of one who had been reared 
in the best society contributed still further to efface the impression 
which his features first made on the beholder. In the light grey 
eye, to which the very long and dark lashes gave a peculiar appear- 
ance, there was what a physiognomist never could have mistaken 
— quiet cruelty. In the narrow weU-cut brow and broad jaw, 
"there were as certainly to be read vindictiveness of a petty kind 
and immoveable firmness. Yet, apart from these indications, the 
face would have been agreeable, had it not been darkened bgr such 
sadness. 



Wkat was the cause of this sadness, loneliness, and reserve ? 
Had he been guilty of some dreadful crime ? Was he now slowly 
consumed by remorse ? or had he suffered some desolating disap- 
pointment, which preyed on him as an incurable malady ? 

No one knew. The steward was as impenetrable as his master. 
The servants were mostly foreigners, and none of them established 
any communication between the people of the village, except of 
the most simple kind^ such as the purchase of commodities, the 
delivery of messages, <fcc. They were deaf to all inquiries — on 
their guard against all indirect questions. Not one of them was 
ever known even to step in and take a glass of wine or beer. 
Curiosity was non-plused. 

Some slight indications Curiosity had discovered, and these 
were stimulants to the discovery of more. It was quit* certain 
that Bidley H&U contained some mystery which the squire took 
enormous pains to conceal from the prying eyes of the world. That 
was one indication ; and conjecture built many a strange romance 
upon this slight foundation. Next it was discovered, or suspected, 
that the mystery was a woman — a woman confined there. Con- 
jecture sometimes thought the woman was a mistress jealously 
watched, or a wife barbarously treated, and sometimes a prisoner 
unlawfully detained. At last news was brought that one of the 
^oighbouring poachers had frequently heard dreadful shrieks issu- 
ing from the Hall in the middle of the night, and that those shrieks 
were certainly a woman's. Imagine the impetus this gave to 
curiosity ! Imagine the romances conjecture made out of it ! 

Finally, about two years before the opening of this story, it came 
,Out that Mr. Templeworth's sadness, and the whole mystery of 
the Hall, arose from the fact of his only sister being deranged, 
and that she had been taken by him from a madhouse to Ridley, 
there to be guardedand attended to in a more gentle and affectionate 
manner. 

This did not entirely satisfy Aston. It was argued, and with 
some plausibility, that the mere surveillance of a mad woman did 
not necessitate the excessive seclusion in which the whole place 
was kept ; and the mysterious silence and unfriendliness of the 
servants was by no means explained. 

But, gossip and conjecture as they might, no clue was given to 
them, and the mystery remained as a never-tiring subject of con- 
versation. Harry Meadows, the plumber and glazier, had often, 
while smoking his pipe at the ''Blue Lion," discusaed and heard 



520 THE GAIXAKT GLAZIER. 

the subject discussed by others ; and although Harry was not 
more curious than another, yet it was impossible to live within 
three miles of Ridley Hall, and not feel a strong desire to penetrate 
its sombre mystery. 

One July night a storm — a terrible summer storm — ^burst upon 
Aston. For four or five hours the thunder boomed, the lightning 
flashed, and the hail and rain rushed down with irresistible fury. 
At every crash of thunder terrified sleepers awoke and trembled 
in their beds, or muttered hasty prayers. Trees were struck by 
the lightning, or torn by the hurricane ; skylights, glass-houses, 
and windows, were shattered by the hail. 

The next morning broke with the smiling caknness of a summer 
morn ; golden seas were painted on the sky, to which the far- 
retreating thimder-clouds formed, as it were, a ridge of rocks. 
The birds were singing lustily. The grass and shrubs sparkled 
in the bright sunbeams. The turbulence and tumult of the night 
had given place to the serenity of a July day. 

Among the disasters of the night was the destruction of a 
charming little greenhouse and a skylight at Ridley Hall. Harry 
Meadows was smnmoned to repair them. The delight with which 
he obeyed that summons may be imagined when his curiosity is 
remembered. 

"I shall see something of the Hall," he said, "and who 
knows what I may not find out ? " 

He walked up the drive with some agitation, which incresrsed 
the nearer he approached the secluded Hall. He turned into the 
small court-yard which led to the offices, and was there disagreeably 
affected by the sight of two ferocious American wolf-dogs, who 
were with difficulty pacified by the servant accompanying him. 

" You see the extent of the breakage ? " said the butler to him, 
as they stood before the shattered greenhouse ; ** there is also a sky- 
light at the top of the Hall. How long will you be about mending 
them ? " 

" That depends upon the number of hands I can get." ' 

" You must have no one but yourself." 

"Eh? " 

" No one but yourself. The squire dislikes seeing men about, 
and so you must be alone." 

** Oh ! very well ; as the squire pleases." 

The butler then led the way to the third story, where the sky- 
light was broken. As they went Harry kept a sharp look-out. 



THE GALLANT GLAZIER. 521 

Without exhibiting, however, the slightest curiosity. He was 
shown the work he had to do, which he said would soon be 
finished ; and, having measured the size of the panes, prepared to 
descend. The corridor in which they were ran round to the back 
of the house, and Harry, quite innocently, was turning round in a 
different direction from that which he had come, when the butler's 
voice angrily arrested him. 

"Holloa ! what do you want that way ? " 

" That way ? nothing. Isn't it the way down ? " 

"No." 

"I mistook it." 

" You mistook nothing of the kind." 

" Do you mean to give me the lie ? " 

The butler looked at him fixedly. 

" Harkye, my man," he said, " you are here to mend windows." 

"I know it." 

" Take care that you meddle in nothing else." 

" Meddle, indeed ! " 

" Yes, meddle. This is not the place for you to satisfy your 
idle curiosity." 

"Oho!" said Harry to himself, **this is the part of the 
house that contains the mystery. Make a note of that ! " 

" You understand me ? " said the butler. 

"I do. But I am not curious." 

"So much the better." 

" I have no reason to be. Do you imagine 1 don't know the 
squire's secret? " 

The butler again fixed his eyes upon him and repeated : — 

" The squire's secret ? " 

" Yes. I know all about it." 

" Humph ! " said the butler, with a shrug of the shoulders. 

" Lord love you," added Harry, with a well-feigned knowing- 
ness and honhommie, " it 's no secret to me. I know the squire 
has got a pretty mistress — it appears he is ra^^r jealous," — here 
he winked at the butler — " and don't like to have her seen." 

" I see you know all," answered the other. 

"But he needn't be afraid of me. I 'm none so handsome ! 
No woman ever threw herself out of a window for my sake : 
more 's the pity." 

"Yet, as the squire has his whim — a word to the wise — don't 
you attempt to see her ! In fact, to move beyond the spot where 



522 THE GAIXAUT €kLAZI£R. 

your work lies, would he sore to get your diamiaaal^ and the squice. 
pays too well for you to risk that." 

*' I should think so ! Besides, I 'm not at all curioua to see 
her. What is she to me ? '* 

They descended into the garden. 

Harry went home to fetch the necessary materials, and all ihe 
way revolving in his mind various plans for the gratification of hia 
curiosity, excessively stimulated by the discovery he had made, of 
the part of the Hall where the woman, whoever she might be, was 
confined. The ludicrous importance attributed to his accidentally 
turning in that one direction, convinced him that the broken aky 
light must be very near the spot ; and Bluebeard's wives were not 
more urgently desirous of penetrating into the forbidden chamber, 
tlian was this jolly glazier to penetrate into the mystery of Kidley 
HaU. 

He said nothing to any of his acquaintance respecting hia dis- 
covery. To all their anxious queries he gave a plain answer : .he 
had seen nothing. 

In returning to the Hall he happened on his way to stumble 
upon a large file, which had been dropped there by some workman 
going home to dinner. He put it into his jacket pooket, little 
aware of the use he was subsequently to have for it. 

All that day, and all the next, he was employed upon the 
greenhouse, and his conduct was so exemplary, he worked so hard 
and so merrily, was so little curious in his slight snatches of con- 
versation with the servants, that he began to be considered as 
perfectly harmless, and was less rigorously watohed than he had 
been at first. Not one trifling word or act aroused the suspicion 
of those who were trained to suspicion. 

Yet had any one observed the stealthy way in which he from 
time to time administered lumps of cold meat to the two ferocious 
and half-famished wolf-dogs, they would have guessed at once that 
under his afiected carelessness there was concealed some scheme* 

The artful mention of the squire's mistress had, however, fully 
satisfied the servants that Harry was so confident of knowing the 
secret that he was not curious about it. 

Four days did the greenhouse take him to repair, and by that 
time his presence at the Hall had oeased to be an object of suspi- 
cion. On the fifth, he had to repair the skylight. About eleven 
o'clock on that day the servant who usually atood near him widle 
he was at work absented himself for a few minutes, although hia 



I 
f 



THE GALLANT eLAZIER. 523 

orders were Tery strict not to lose sight of Harry for a moment, so 
long as he was in that part of the house. But the absence of any 
suspicion made these strict orders seem unnecessary, and the 
servant, for some purpose or other, descended. 

No sooner did Harry hear his footsteps at the bottom of the 
second landing, than he swiftly ran down his ladder, and crept 
along the corridor, till he came to the back of the house. At 
every door he listened eagerly. At last, as he was returning from 
his fruitless suiVey, he heard a deep sigh. He paused to listen ; 
another sigh smote on his ear. The blood rushed up into his head 
— he was violently agitated. Another sigh, a sigh of deep deso- 
late grief followed ; and then he hurried back to his work, not 
without first making a tolerably exact calculation of the situation 
of the chamber from whence the sounds proceeded. 

" It is there ! " he said. 

He was cheerily pursuing his work when the man returned. In 
high spirits he wad, for the first step had been taken. Without 
asking himself what use he was to make of his knowledge, he 
could not help a strange feeling of glorification at the discovery. 
It was only a mad woman perhaps, as report said ; and if so, he 
had merely discovered her cell. 

''But if she is only a mad sister,*' he asked himself, ''what 
the devil is the necessity for keeping it so secret ? If that is 
only her cell, and nothing more, why should they be so anxious 
for me not to detect it ? There must be something more. What 
can it be ? " 

Cheerily he worked, occauonally making a remark to his guard, 
and constantly asking himself — 

"What can it be?" 

The servants' dinner bell rang. He descended from his ladder, 
and went into an empty room to eat his own dinner. 

" I say, old fellow, you'll bring me some beer here won't you? '* 
'he said to the servant. 

" Certainly." 

The servant went to fetch it. Having brought it to him, the 
servant said : — 

" Well, while you are feeding, I shall go to my dinner." 

He shut the door. of the room, and locked it. 

" D n ! " muttered Harry, ^* my sport is spoiled." 

An instinctive hope that the look might perhaps admit of being 
picked, made him rise and examine it. What was his joy to find 



524 THE OALLAl^T OLAZEBB. 

that although the holt was turned, it had not entered the hasp : the 
door had not been quite shut to ! 

In another moment he was in the corridor ; and, feeling sure that 
he was now to be undisturbed for at least half-an-hour, he ran up 
his ladder, got out on to the roof, crossed over to the front of the 
house, and crept along the parapet until he came to the spot 
which, as he calculated, must be the room where the mad woman 
was confined. 

He came to an open window and peeped in. A low stifled cry 
startled him. It was from the miserable inmate, who sat up in 
the bed on which she reclined, exclaiming — 

** Save me I Save me ! Indeed I am not mad ! " 

" Hush ! speak low ; we may be overheard I '* 

•* Who are you ? " 

" A friend. Are you the squire's sister ? " 

"Alas! alas!" 

** And he keeps you here against your will ? " 

She pushed aside the clothes, and with a bitter sneer pointed 
to a large iron chain which was fastened round her waist, and fixed 
her to the bed. 

** He says I am mad," she said, "because he wishes to keep me 
from my property. Half of this estate is mine. He will not 
give it up, and keeps me here, hoping to drive me mad ; and he 
has nearly succeeded ! But I have seen through his design, and I 
keep myself calm. I will not become insane. God will deliver 
me some day : in Him I put my trust ! " 

*' If I were but sure , • . Yet you must speak the truth . . . 
I cannot doubt you." 

"Can you rescue me ? '* 

"Perhaps. 

" WiU you ? 

" If I can— but it is a dangerous affair." 

" Save me, and I will marry you — I will make you rich and 
happy. Oh, save me — ^in pity save me ! " 

Harry hesitated. 

" Have you courage ? " she asked. 

" Enough to do anything I choose to do. Come to the window, 
and let me look at you. Ah, you can't move ? Well, don t be 
alarmed, I will get into your room." 

He did so, and approached the bed. She seized one of his hands, 
and kissed it fervently. He began to fear she might really be 



If 

19 



THE GALLANT GLAZIER. 525 

mad. It was a doubt of that kind which made him wish to 
see her. He looked steadily into her face, but the eye gave no 
sign of insanity. 

As he looked he was struck with the beauty which shone 
through her emaciated features. Her long dark hair uncombed 
fell with a natural wavy curl upon her shoulders, and gave her 
a wild aspect, which the features, worn with wretchedness and 
confinement, only made more wild. But amidst all this, there 
was a sweetness and a beauty which greatly affected him. It was 
impossible to talk to her and not feel convinced of her sanity. 
Whether she had once been insane was another question ; now she 
certainly had recovered the use of her reason. 

Her story, which was briefly told, accorded too well with all the 
suspicious conduct of her brother, not to insure credit. It appeared 
that on the death of their father — four years ago — the estate 
had been left between the two children, with the option of either 
dividing it, or of the brother's paying in money the value of 
his sister's share. This made Templeworth furious. To divide 
the estate would be to spoil it ; to pay her for her share would so 
impoverish him, that he would be unable to keep up the estate. 
He tried to persuade her to live with him, and for both to share 
the advantages of the property without a division. But she 
disliked him. She refused to live with him, and insisted on the 
division. Incensed by her refusal, he took her one day to a private 
madhouse, which he told her was the residence of the gentleman 
who was to take the mortgage necessary to pay for her share. 
Unsuspicious of any design, she allowed herself to be taken into 
the garden, and there she found herself a prisoner, and treated as a 
mad woman. Her brother had warned the master of the asylum, 
that her peculiar madness was the common one of supposing she 
was kept out of her property, and that she was most suspicious of 
her relations, especially her brother, against whom she was furious. 

"The vile trick too well succeeded/' she added; "my rage 
at this attempt was construed into a proof of my insanity; and 
when, with vehement denunciations of my brother's villany, I 
stated the whole case, an incredulous smile was all the answer I 
received. Por some weeks I was in a state of despair. At last, 
finding myself looked upon as a mad woman, whose very pro- 
testations were only accepted as proofs of what she naost strenuously 
denied, I changed my conduct. I became calm. I ceased to 
complain. I spoke quietly and rationally. They believed me 



526 THE OAtLAHT GLAZIEB. 

nearly cured. My brother came, and having reeeired' a notice* that 
I wa3 now nearly recovered, he took me away ; but he brought me 
here, and in this room, chained to this bed, I hav« remained ever 
since. The fact of my having been in a madhouse is the damning 
proof he holds of my insanity, and he has told me often, Ihat if I 
should succeed in escaping, that fact will be sufficient to brii^ 
me once more into his power. As to his ill treatment of me, he 
says, no one will credit that, for no one ever credits the narration 
of cruelties, which the insane alwBys imagine themselves to have 
suffered.'* 

She ceased. Harry had been inl^ensely interested in her story, 
and was now burning with indignation against her brother. 

" I will save you, if it be possible,'* he exdaimedl 

•* Do so, and yon shall- be rich." 

** Take this file,*' said he, drawing from his pocket the one he 
had picked up, ** and quietly occupy yourself ihis afternoon with 
filing your chain. Be ready at michiight, and trust in me/* 

He pressed her hand, and rapidly retreated. 

On closing the door of the room in which he had been shut, and 
sitting down to his meal of cold meat and bread, his blood 
galloped so through his veins, and his brain seemed to whirl 
round so fearfully, that he scarcely felt as if he were awake — it 
was like a struggle with some ghastly dream*— a waking night- 
mare. He could not eat ; but lest the unbroken victuals should 
excite suspicion, he carefully packed them up again in paper, and 
stowed them into his- pocket. The beer he drank, and then endea- 
voured to collect his thoughts and arrange his plans. 

In a few minutes the servant returned. The work was resumed. 
In another hour or so, prolong it how he would, this would be 
finished ; and he wished not only for delay, but also to get back 
to Aston before finishing it. The device was simple. With a 
clumsiness worthy of a Jocrisse, he smashed ^re of the panes which 
he had just fixed in, and then began swearing at his misfortune, 
as if he had been i*obbed to a considerable amount. As the glass 
had also cut his hand, the whole thing had a most natural air. 

" D — n it, I must now go back home to fetch more glass, so thai 
I not only lose my glass but my time. Is it very necessary to have 
this finished to-day ? ** 

" Yes, very." 

" Then I suppose I must do it. Was there ever such iH luck ! 
At a time, too, when -so many people want me ! '* 



TSB 0ALLAST CdiAZIBB. * 527 



" Stnry for yofu, but master's. orders are to get the job done at 
once." 

" Well, 111 s^p up this evenmgand finish it cff^*' 



PAET IL^THE ESCAPE^ 



The sadness of Mr. Templewortk and his myerterious reserve is 
now easily explained. Having perpetrated that atrocious act, by 
which he enjoyed undisturbed possession of the whole property, 
he found himself with iihe weight of a crime upon his soul, and 
that crime useless. He could not leave Ridl^- Hicdl for a day. 
Largely as he bribed his servants — and they w«pe mostly foreigners 
—severely as he watched them, he was aJrcdd to absent himself 
for one day, lest in tiiat day the oace- which he had taken to keep 
his prisoner fh)m all eominunicati<m with the worid should be 
destroyed. Nor, on the other hand, could he properly enjoy 
Ridley, because he dreaded the piiesenee of sta^n^ers in his house. 
^^ 'Tis conscience doth make cowardsof ins all;" and Although to his 
servants he pleaded an extreme susoeptibiiity as a point of family 
honour, and gave them to understand thai his deare for conceal- 
ment was the natural desire to eonceal the fact of insanity, yet in 
his own conscience he trembled at the idea of aay stranger speaking 
to her ; deeming it impossible that any one should not discover 
the truth. 

This made him sad* Life to him was a^ struggle. He was as 
one always expecting to be detected, and, storting at every shadow. 

Let us leave him to his own bitter ^eughtSj and return to 
Harry, who, with a huge ladder on his shouideri is now entering 
by the lodge gates* He has brought with him the implements 
necessary for his daring scheme. Am he gets out of sight of the 
lodge, he deposits the ladder in the long gmes, there to lie till he 
wants it. He apprdatjhes the Hall. Lion and Nei^o, i^e two wolf- 
dogs, who have be<^ome great friends with hrm, eome bounding 
up, wagging tfa^ir tails, and ciKressing his hands. While patting 
their heads he manages to give them, as usual, a t-empting morsel 
of meat. They devour it greedily ; he smiles darkly, for the 
meat is poisoned. 

To his work he goes. It is- fimshed. He is paid, and now 
•ctepartst Thfe lodge-keeper wishes hina a surly good-evening, and 



528 THE GALLANT GLAZIER. 

does not notice that the ladder on his shoulder is considerahly 
smaller than that which he carried in as he came. All goes well. 

With a beating heart, Harry re-enters the yillage, and calls 
upon his best friend. 

*/ Bill, I shall want you to-night : you and your cart. There 's 
something in the wind. Can you help me ? " 

''What is it?" 

" Answer me first \ can you, and will you lielp me ? " 

" You know, Harry, I 'd do anything for ypu. Is there danger ? " 

"Yes.'' 

** Nothing wrong I hope ? " 

** Nothing — ^unless to succour the wrongfully accused, to release 
the innocent from horrible tyranny, is wrong. But there 's danger ? " 

He briefly confides to him the state of the whole affair, 

" By God ! Harry, 1 11 assist you." 

" Then, about twelve to-night, put your horse to, bring a couple 
of heavy bludgeons and a bottle of brandy, and wait outside the 
wood about a hundred yards from the bridge. There expect me." 

It is agreed on, and Harry lights a pipe to settle in quiet medi- 
tation all the details of his scheme* 

Meanwhile the wretched woman has fifed through the chain, 
and is counting the weary moments with horrible anxiety. The 
hope of deliverance has given such an impulse to her brain, that, 
in the tumult of her thoughts, she almost fears she will go mad 
at last. 

** Will he come ? Will he succeed ? " she asks herself with 
fretful impatience ; and then the thought of being once more fr5e 
sends the blood bounding to her brain, till she is forced to make a 
fierce effort, and be calm. 

Meanwhile the wretched brother is dining in magnificence and 
silence. The large and splendid room is brilliantly lighted — the 
table glitters with costly plate and glass — three servants, in mute 
obsequiousness, attend on him. No one is there to keep him 
company ; no joyous voices, no smiling faces, make that dinner 
gay. Noiselessly the servants move about the room, noiselessly 
they change the dishes. Scarcely a word is spoken. Wealth, 
wears not its air of insolent prosperity — it only makes the scene 
hideous. 

^ Rising from his unenjoyed meal, the solitary man passes into 
his drawing-room. It is as cheerless as the dining-room. New 
books and periodicals lie upon the table. These he reads, some- 



1 



THE GALLANT GLAZIER. 529 

what listlessly. They occupy, but cannot amuse him. At tea 
o'clock he retires to bed, in sleep to forget the dreariness and 
weariness of the day, and in dreams of happy boyhood and active 
youth, to forget the crime which stains his manhood. 

Perhaps, on the whole, his prisoner has long been less wretched 
than he. With all the horrors of her confinement, her soul has 
been free and pure. He has been exempt from the physical tor- 
tures, but his soul has been fettered and imprisoned. 

The clock strikes twdve. 

Harry scales the wall, by help of the smaller ladder which he 
had taken away with him. He draws it up after him, and pro- 
ceeds in search of the one he deposited on the grass ; that found, 
he fastens the two together, and so makes one long enough for his 
purpose. 

Unhappily, it is a lovely moonlight night. The sky is cloudless, 
and almost as bright as day. Harry, who is by no means poetical, 
curses the moon with as hearty a curse as any burglar could be 
expected to bestow on her. But no time is to be lost, and moon 
or no moon, he must to work. 

Not a light is visible in the Hall ; not a sound gives indication 
of any one being still out of bed. Harry steals round to the back 
of the Hall, stumbling over the stiffened carcase of one of the 
dogs on his way. 

*' Poor creature ! " he says, ** I would rather have given the 
poison to your master." 

The body of the poisoned dog disagreeably affects him, for 
Harry is tender, as well as resolute, and the sight of the poor 
animal, a victim to his very faithfulness, rather unnerves him. 

Jane Templeworth has heard the clock strike twelve, and, 
unable to restrain her impatience, has crept stealthily to the 
window ; although at the hazard of alarming her brother, whose 
room is under hers, by the soimd of her moving about. 

At last she espies him with the ladder on his shoulder. How 
her heart beats ! What a sudden sickness overcomes her ! He 
approaches. He stops. What is he pausing to look at on the 
ground ? She sees not the carcase of the poor dog. But now he 
resumes his walk. He sees her, and makes a signal. He hastens 
— ^he is under the window — the ladder is placed — she descends, 
and is caught in his arms. Not a word is spoken. He grasps 
her hand, and is about to hurry away. Suddenly he relinquishes 
it, and creeps back to the ladder, which he removes. But now all 

NO. XXXVI. — VOL. VI. M M 



530 THE GALLANT GLAZISB. 

Ids attention is required for Jane, who is unable to- stand. Long 
confinement bas bad its effect : her limbs refuse to obey her. The 
immense excitement of the first few minutes gave her strength to 
descend ; but now that is exhausted. The fresh air makes her as 
helpless as one who has just arisen from a low fever. 

But Harry is powerful. He seizes her in his arms, and hurries 
with her into the shrubbery. There at least they are out of sight ; 
but, fearful lest any alarm should have been given, he runs on ejs 
rapidly as his burden will permit. His pace begins to slacken. 
He toils on slowly. He is obliged to pause. He sets her down 
on the ground to rest himself for a few seconds ; listening eagerly 
all the time. 

** Do you think you could walk now ? However slowly, it 
would let us gain time.'* 

'« I will try/' 

She rose, but was unable to move half-a«do2en steps without 
again sinking into his arms. 

" Alas ! aks ! I have no strength." 

" Hark ! hush ! I hear some one." 

A long whistle, and a voice calling ** Lion ! Nero ! Lion ! " are 
distinctly heard. A shudder runs throiigh their veins. The 
shouts for Nero and Lion grow louder. 

" The alarm is given — but they know nothing as yet," Harry 
says, as he again snatches up his precious burden and staggers 
with it down to the river's side. 

I ought to have mentioned before, that the river ran through the 
domain, and was bordered on the other side by a thick plantation, 
which concealed it from the high road. 

To the boat-house Harry went, placed his charge in the boat, 
seized a boat-hook, cut the painter, and in three seconds was on 
the other side ; the increasing noise and bustle at the Hall making 
every moment one of peril. Once in the plantation, he felt more 
secure ; but still, delaying not a minute, he carried Jane Temple- 
worth through it to a smsdl gate which gave upon the high road, 
and there espied his friend in the cart ; a signal brought the cart 
up, and in a few moments the trio set off at a steady trot for the 
next town, 

Jane was no sooner seated in the cart than she fainted. Bill 
drove on steadily, while Harry strove to recover her. Their drive 
was one of intense anxiety. Every sound they heard they inter- 
preted into the sounds of pursuit ; but their fears were groundless. 



XUE GALLA17T QLAZIBR. 531 

The pursuit indeed was active, but, misled hj Qome deceptive indi- 
cations, it bad taken a different course. 

As momiDg broke, a^ council of war was beld. Jane was so 
sure of again falling into her brother's clutches, if once he dis- 
covered her retreat, that she urged them above all things first to 
secure that. 

" When once we are married," she said, ** you, as my husband, 
will have a stronger claim than he c^i have ; but till that, he can, 
in the name of the: law, take me fr(Hn you, and by declaring me to 
be insane, sa^ by ahowiaig the certificate of my having been in a 
madhouse, every mftgiatcate will assist him." 

Bill remembered that he knew an excellent widow, who held a 

small farm within three miles of , the town to which they 

were driving, and that there she might better remain concealed for 
a few days than in l^e town itself, where actiye inquiries would be 
sure to discover her. 

To Mrs.Sxmpkiu's farm they drove, and fortunate it was they 
did so. 



PART III.— "NONE BUT THE BRAVE DESERVE THE FAIR." 

Harbt, <m finding that Miss Templeworth could be carefully 
c<Hicealed at Mrs. Simpkin's, and after promising to retm*n and see 
what further assistance he could render on the following day, 

jumped again into the cart, and proceeded with Bill to , there 

to consult a lawyer. They had not arrived ten minutes in the 
town, when the squire's butler suddenly appeared before them, 
seized the horse's head, and ordered Harry to descend. 

" What 's all this about ? " said Harry. 

" You know well eaonxgh, so get down and follow me." 

" A joke 's a joke, <^ fellow ; but unless I understand yours, 
I shall cut youorer the head, for stopping me oai my way to 
business." 

'* Don't oblige m^ to call for assistance ! " 

** I shall oblige you witha, lash of my whip if you doa feexplain 

A crowd collected. 

** Where is^Miss Templeworth? " shouted the butler. 
• ** Miss Templeworth ? How ahould I know ? " 

'* You know too well ! " 

** Why, you *re mad ; what have I to do with your mistress ? 
J am not her servant." 

H M 2 



>» 



532 THe GALLANT GLAZIER. 

" It IS yon who helped her to escape ! " 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 

" You *11 find it no laughing matter^ I can tell you ! '* 

'< Ha ! ha ! ha ! Escape . • • what, then, she has escaped ? 
I 'm glad of it." 

" You did it." 

" Did I ? What proof have you of that ? " 

This question posed the hutler. He saw that he had no 
evidence to bring forward, and that no magistrate would accept 
a mere accusation unaccompanied by the slightest proof. He 
resolved to change his mode of operation, and to watch Harry *» 
movements. 

" Tell me honestly ; give me your word of honour that Miss 
Templeworth is not with you — is not in any house belonging to 
your friends or relations, and I shall be satisfied." 

" I declare solemnly that she is not." 

** Then, good day. Excuse my having suspected you.'* 

Harry drove to the lawyer's. 

Having laid the whole case before him, this was the advice he 
received : — 

" After all. Miss Templeworth may he insane, and it is right for 
us to assure ourselves of that, in order that we may defeat the 
brother. Your marriage would be annulled, if it coidd be proved 
that she was not sane at the time of its being contracted. Let 
me call upon her, in your name, and I will see how the matter 
really stands. Meanwhile, do you return to Aaton, and pursue 
your business as usual ; for I am convinced the butler is watching 
you, and wherever you go he will suspect that Miss Templeworth 
is concealed. Give me a note to her, informing her of your plans, 
and I will write to you as soon as all is ready." 

Harry sat down to write. The thought then occurred to him, 
that it would be ungenerous to insist upon her fulfilment of the 
promise of marriage, so he inserted this final paragraph : — 

" As to what was talked of in the way of recompense, allow me 
to say, Miss, that I consider myself already paid for any trouble, 
by having safely got you away from the Hall. I have done but 
my duty. Marriage between us is out of the question. The more 
I think of it, the more I see that such a thing cannot be. You 
were not meant for such as me. You could blush for your hus- 
band, and I should be miserable. If ever I marry, and have 
cliildren, I will ask you to be godmother, and a very good thing it 
will be for me, I'm sure." 



T^E GALLANT GLAZIER. 533 

This note he showed the lawyer, and asked him what he thought 
of it. 

** You 're a noble fellow ! " said the lawyer, pressing his hand. 

In another hour Harry was again on the road with his friend ; 
and in the afternoon was at work in his shop at Aston, as if 
nothing had happened. Watched he was ; but all suspicion 
seemed to be foiled, and it was at last thought, that if he really 
had assisted the escape (which few doubted), he had so planned it, 
that she must have already found an asylum at a considerable 
ilistance, to which no clue at present existed. 

Three days after, a little boy came with a message to him, 
saying that a gentleman wanted to see him in the parlour of the 
''Blue Lion." He went and found the lawyer, who slipped into 
liis hand a note. It contained these words : — 

** Noble heart ! The debt must and shall be paid. I have no 
fears. To refuse me would be to make me miserable^ and it would 
%mdo all that you have done.** 

The lawyer was more precise. He explained to Harry that it 
was really very desirable Miss Templeworth should have a husband 
to protect her, and that she was bent on marrying her deliverer. 

•* It was the delicacy of a good and true man which made you 
refuse ; and the refusal has made you still more estimable in her 
eyes. But to refuse now would be false delicacy." 

Harry, as may be supposed, allowed himself to be persuaded. 
In a very short time Jane Templeworth became Mrs. Meadows. 

The struggle, however, with the brother was yet to come. 
Having established his right to demand in his own name a restitu- 
tion of the property, he told the lawyer to procure a copy of the 
will ; and, armed with that, he wrote a calm firm letter to the squire, 
intimating that unless the restitution were made peaceably, he 
should carry the matter into court, when the squire would have to 
answer other charges than that of simple withholding of property. 

He received no answer. 

Again he wrote, and this time more strongly. 

His letter was sent back unopened. 

Furious at this treatment, he called at the Hall in person, to 
confront the haughty villain, and to bring him to some decided 
explanation. 

Arrived there, he could not gain admittance. 

" The squire is dying," said the butler, " and you haye killed 
him." 



99 
99 



534 THE GALLANT GLAZIEB. 

"Dying! " 

** Yes. Ever since Miss Templeworth's escape he has bees 
fast sinking ; the idea of its being known that a Templeirorth i» 
insane prejed upon his spirits ; and when he learned that she wa& 
married, and to whom, he exclaimed^ ' My cap is full/ From that 
moment he has been confined to his bed." 

" You are not deceiving me ? " 

" Deceiving you — ^for what purpose ? 

" To prevent my seeing your laaster. 

" Wait half an hour and Dr. Watson wiH be* here ; then ask 
him." 

It was too true. Shame was killing the nuserable man. Harry 
understood the violence of his remorse wb^i he came to reflect 
upon all that had transpired. 

"If," said he, "the ntere conseiouflness of his -crime musde him 
so miserable while he kept Ms sister in his own power, wiiat must 
be the effect of knowing her not only out of hi« hands, but li»- 
secret on the point of being published to the whole world ! " 

In ten days the news of Templeworth's death reached them* 
Except a few legacies to servantSj the whole of his pn^rty wa& 
left to Jane. 

Harry now found himself the husband of a beautiful and accom- 
plished woman, to whose cheeks health and happineas rapidly 
restored their bloom and freshness, and found himself, moreover^ 
the possessor of a splendid estate. 

But he could not forget, nor could his neighbours forget, that 
Squire Meadows had been the Aston glazier ; and he very soon 
quitted Ridley Hall, for a tour on the continent, with his wife,, 
whom he worshipped. 

Perhaps the reader expects that I am going to wind up this tale 
with the received announcement that the hero and heroine had 
several children, and " lived very happily aU their days." But a» 
this is more like the conclusion of a fiction than that of a real 
story, I must disappoint him. 



535 



THOUGHTS ON VISITING HIGHGATE CEMETERY. 

A Place of pleasant walks, and grassy slopes, 

And girt about with trees, as with a zone ; 
And yet, alas ! the shrine of blighted hopes 

By age matured, or early ov^thrown — 
Whose emblems are aronnd in stone and flower. 
Time-honoured and the worshipped of an hour. 

In grave-yards of our cities, rich and poor, 
Just as in life — Oh, shame ! — ^in death most be ; 

But here distinction closes not the door 
Against admission to spare poverty. 

Man equals man, in dust laid side by side, 

For in the grave there is no room for pride. 

But rich and poor here dose in union lie, 

As tomb and tablet and the hillock tell ; 
And yet the tears of sorrow are not dry, 

Wept for the dead the living loved too well ; 
For flowers are on the graves — ^life's symbols they. 
That bloom a moment, and then fade away. 

How glorious the prospect ! — and, how far 
It spreads around, till blending with the sky, 

Where, sun-lit here and there — as shines a star — 
Some distant cottage flashes on the eye ; 

And hills, on either side, slant gently down, 

'Twixt which is seen, cloud-crowned, vast London Town. 

Upon a sloping bank, where you might look 

For violets and cowslips, in the shade 
Of one tall tree and bowering shrubs, a nook 

Is seen with its sweet flowers, where late was laid 
One on whose tablet is revealed her life. 
That she — ^how true ! — was a devoted wife. 

Devotion was her passion, and the power 
By which all other hearts to hers she drew, 

As, governed by attraction, on a flower 
Melt into one another drops of dew. 

Loving and loved, her bright example shone, 

And gave to all a feeling like her own. 



536 THOUGHTS ON VISITING HIGHGATE CEMETERY, 

Oh ? Poverty, though youVe no cenotaph 
Built up of stone, to mark your place of rest, 

Nor the delusive lauding epitaph, 

Recording virtues few have e'er possess'd, 

You here may have green turf and fragrant air, 

And where you sleep spring up the daisy fair. 

And though you're doomed to labour through the day. 

And wearily at last sink down to rest, 
Sweet is the sleep that wafts your night away. 

From which the morning sees you rise refresh'd ; 
While indolent repose has fitful dreams, 
And jaded strength to meet the morning's beams. 

Envy not man his treasures, then, when wealth 
Cant save him, as you know, from pang or care, 

While you 've a greater treasure in the health 
He 'd gladly give up all his wealth to share — 

Health, which from labour springs — ^its rich reward — 
Fresh'ning the heart, as rain the verdant sward. 

Who feels the thrill of Pleasure most ? Not he 
Who drinks from out her cup to surfeiting, 

But he to whom her draught 's a rarity. 

And taken where the wild bird loves to sing, 

With the clear sky all glorious overhead — 

And God is thanked for the spare banquet spread. 

God's mercy and man's justice, were they one, 
In what could we hereafter place our trust 1 

But rich and poor, when their career is done. 
Mix on equality their kindred dust, 

And meet so, at the last, on that great day. 

When all distinctions shall have passed away. 

G. B. 



537 



THE PRINCE AND THE PHILIBEG. 



BY PAUL BELL. 

■ ♦ 



We are great readers in our house of Miss Barney's (I beg 
her pardon — Madame d'Arblay's) Diary. My Mrs. Bell takes 
an interest in her for old times' sake — ** Evelina " being the 
first novel she ever read : and what is there to compare >vith 
one's first Novel ? •* Then," my wife will say — with that lurking 
dislike to all women of genius, which I observe clever women 
at once nourish and conceal from clever men — ** She was so 
respectable." To me, she was somewhat fulsomely so : too much 
of a time-server : and of a courtier : who knew how to feel the 
proper thing, in the proper degree, towards the proper person, 
at the proper time^ and in the proper place. ** So modest, too," 
proceeds my Mrs. Bell. As if the modesty of an obscure girl, 
when carried on b}' a celebrated woman, were not open to as 
much suspicion, as the bold unconcerned behaviour of an Actress, 
to whom boldness and unconcern must be the habits of a life ! 
I inquire, whether she believes Mademoiselle Jenny Lind was in 
earnest, when she asked the Dean of So-and-So, " whether it was 
possible he had ever heard of her," and this after all London 
had been searched by the hue and cry of ** Where 's Jenny ? " 
ten times as loud as the question " Whereas Eliza? " which 
was carted about a fortnight since. — And when my wife says 
" No I — I don't think anything of your over-shy folks — except 
that they want to get the most possible praise and encourage- 
ment," — I bid her apply her own words to Miss Bumey's spasms 
of diffidence at the Thrales : — a method of bringing women to 
reason, which, I have observed, even fails to excite their liveliest 
displeasure. 

But — deeming Madame d'Arblay, as I do, a successful trader ; 
and as such, esteeming her less than many a poor, forlorn, Rosa, 
or Emily, or other anonymous or too-well known Poetess who 
has been more " conspicuous " but less successful in her trade— 
I nevertheless love to read in her Diary. There, if you will, 
is the true Court Journal ! There may be seen unfolded the 
mysteries of that dismal and dreary monotony, which make one 



538 THE PRINCE AND THE PHILIBEO. 

wonder, like children, why Kings and Queens do not sometimes 
un-Eling and un* Queen themselyes — do not walk civilly down Pall 
Mall — or (who knows but that would be the greatest relief of all ?) 
down the dusty Knightsbridge-road — ^to tire themselyes properly ; 
and to spoil their fine clothes by way of a treat ! There you 
watch the gradual enmeshing of everything like free thought and 
natural impulse: — perceive how lame women learn to curtsey 
while walking backwards, rather than show irreverence to Royalty 
— how a clever Reportress may be commanded to attend a trial, 
or read a book, or take an observation of any new and strange 
character, by way of cramming curious and timid Monarchs, 
with ideas on unexpected subjects. There 's a certain sort of 
prolixity which fascinates. Who can go through Hood's "Miss 
Kilmansegg " without having the taste of gold in his mouth ere 
he gets to the end of the stupendous enumeration of her riches ? 
— Who can take up " Clarissa Harlowe " (save it be that pleasant 
French penny-a-liner. Master Jules Janin, who flattered himself 
the other day, that he was patronising Richardson by abbre- 
viating him,) and wish a single page or line retrenched, though 
every word, as it were, draws the cord of torture tighter and 
tighter around one ? I am not much of a reader. Sir : neither 
steady nor staid in that character : I cannot taste, what I see 
many of my betters devouring ; but I often wish that there 
were ten volumes more of that Diary ; and have nearly got by 
heart the two devoted to Windsor and Kew, to "The Sweet 
Queen," and "The engaging Princesses," and exemplary Mr. 
Fairly, who did not marry the Diarist : and tyrannical Mrs. 
Schwellenberg, and flighty Mr. Turbulent — not forgetting Bettina^s^ 
grandmother, who came, in true German style, for sympathy and 
a dinner : — and got neither ! 

You will ask, I dare say, why I am favouring you with my^ 
judgment of a book, which is neither new nor old. It was the 
chronicle of our Prinee of Wales' Birthday which made me iMnk 
of it : — ^which made me conjure up all the dressings, and presents, 
and Drawing-rooms, and faded flatteries, got up by Chamber- 
lainly precedent and authority, for all the long line of Princes and 
Princesses, who were young gentlemen and Ladies, when Fanny 
Bumey diarised them ! — There 's to me, a deep melancholy in 
every anniversary and commanded festivity : 'when one counts- 
up the rambling thoughts— the wistful regrets — of those who are 
expected to look glad and gracious and interested : — some wan- 



1 



TBS T«V!K^ AKD'THE FHHIBEO. 539 

dering out ol l^eir p^iBcms^ across the seas, or back to the 
homes where they were careless children — some pushing forward, 
to the funerals which are to make them rich Chief Mourners ; 
— some dmng inward, to depths they dare iK)t make clear to them- 
selves ; how much less to others! — I won't be called Maudlin, 
because I do not lore the first of May, when 

" I turn from all she brought to all she could not bring/' 

nor morbid, because^ Birthdays, seem to be numbered year by year, 
by so much and so much more of dark and grievous experiences — 
and I do not, as you know by this time, share Miss Burney's 
blind admiration for " everything that royal bin ; " but, who 
could think of our little Heir- Apparent on his Birthday, this year 
of grace, without many grave and deep fe^ings, mingling with 
their blessings on his childhood ? — Not I, at least ! 

The Court papers make a charming exhibition of the cake on 
the breakfast^taJble, and of the toys, and of The Heir, and the 
Heir's parent, caparisoned in Highland dresses, (cold enough, 
masquerading, I submit, on Lord Mayor's Day !) which last 
being a German, fashion, and as sucb, graceful in H.R.H. — let 
us not laugh at it more thau can be helped ! But in Gotha (be 
pleased to take care that no one prints GOTHAM, by mistake !) 
there would have been something more on a Court birthday 
besides the above confectionary, the hot muffins and the chill 
wn-dressing-»~a masque, perchance — a serenade sung by the 
burghens. Or if Mr. John Andersen, of Sweden — who has made 
hims^ every one's "Jo," by giving the world his delicious new 
stories, fresh from Faery land-^-had chanced to be passing that 
way, he would have been summoned to Court (treated, let us 
hope, a little better than Mrs. Siddons, when she read tragedies 
to Fanny Burney's "sweet* queen" Charlotte, standing bolt 
upright all the wMle, tillshe neariy fainted) and bidden to repeat 
one of his best' legends : in which capacity, I am told, he is very 
clever and agreeable. Are any story-tellers, thank you, Sir, 
allowed to get the ear of The Prince ? For, methinks, there 
be some tales, and those "o'er true" ones, he should learn 
betimes. To know how to behave in a Philibeg is — all must 
admit — a most necessary accomplishment. Every one wears it, 
you are aware : or may have to wear it, if the Sobieski Stuarts 
should come to the throne again ! ! and for this, it may be as well 
to prepare at an early period. But, besides Scotch possibilities, 



^40 THE FRINGE AND THE PHILIB£0« 

Are there not English — Irisli — European certainties, round about 
us; which might give a colour to a Prince's Birthday? — shows 
of more significant parade than the foolery which tricks out 
the Cradle-Coach of that Old Baby — in some sort, His Boyal 
Highness* contemporary — The New Lord Mayor ? — sounds, as 
well worth listening for, as the Military Band in the Castle Yard 
— or the dance of the blithe and prosperous peasantry, round 
Heme's Oak ? 

** Hear the old Radical wretch ! " cries some 

** — grave, conceited niirse^ of office proud," 

who would fain treat me to the stocks with a gag in my mouth. 
** Out with the vulgar Barbarian ! Let him dare to come here : 
croaking like a screech-owl, close to our Precious Child ! poisoning 
all his pleasure : — the Darling I " And forthwith, there riseth'such 
a hubbub about "Peg Nicholson," and "the Boy Jones," the 
" First Lord of the Privy Council," — about accomplished, urbane, 
good-natured " Dr. Hawtrey, of Eton," — the "Archbishop of Can- 
terbury," " Mr. , the Page in Waiting," (a Page to be 

torn out of the Book of Royal Favour, for allowing such a Dog to 
bark within the Court Precincts !) and " Mr. PoHce Commis- 
sioner Mayne ! " — that it is a good ten minutes before I can get a 
hearing. This being done, let me declare that I have no intentions 
of assassination — none of tampering with the Succession, ('tis 
not I, Sir, who dress the Blessed Boy in the Stuart Tartan !) — 
none. Heaven be my witness ! as a father and a peaceful citizen, 
of sowing discord or jealousy in families : — none — ^least of all — 
of darkening the hours of Childhood, " Good go with " the 
young Heir ! — a happy boyhood — a manly youth : trust in, not 
terror of, his Parents — friends, and those not such as shall speak 
him fair, but those who shall tell him true ! — knowledge, of him- 
63lf — ^knowledge of the world of Thrones, and of Cities : the world, 
too, of Ships, and Manufactories, and Jails, and Hovels ! Give 
him elbow-room — say I, loyally and heartily — for his enjoy- 
ments ! Give him his own private chambers of retreat — ^as well 
as the vast public stages on which he must figure* Give his 
heart a space to play in ! As much pleasure, as you will : — 
but let it be the pleasure which strengthens. If there is to be 
precocity, however — and precocity which the world is called upon 
to admire and accredit — loyal and loving subjects have a right 
to ask, whether the education goes throughout ? — ^whether, with 



THE PRINCE AND THE PHILIBEG. 541 

the sack, which our Heir- Apparent drinketh, while all the Court 
Journals cry "Amen ! " — ^the wholesome proportion of bread is 
also administered. 0, may his not he a precocity of Tailor- 
connoisseurship, alone ! (crieth the Laureate,) nor our " Child-" 
Prince be '* the Father " of such a Fine- Clothes-King — (so Sartor 
Besartus might call him !) as George the Fourth : whose costly 
mummery is to this day cherished by the tribe of Stultz and Hoby : 
by the congregation of them that embroider — by the dealers in 
precious stones, and those who work fine needlework ! 

Therefore, I am not to be set down as a Hater — a Kill-joy — a 
Damien in disguise— a Fieschi, having for my infernal machine a 
tongue which is like a tocsin {alias a Revolutionary Bell), when 
I ask, in all love and loyalty, whether in the Highland Plaid was 
folded the faintest whisper of Highland Famine ? I do not mean 
such vague Pantomimic notions of Princely beneficence as would 
prompt the sending out to the starving of all the breakfast cake 
that the Koyal child could not eat : — but some plain practical idea 
of hunger and thirst, such as may seize little children who were 
not born with the magical Three Feathers above their cradles- 
some rudiments of some belief in PrinCely responsibility, as having 
affectionate relation to popular wretchedness and suffering. It is a 
hard, ungracious service — no man can doubt it — to unveil the 
eyes of Childhood — to destroy its unconsciousness. And, if there 
be one thing above another, I do religiously and profoundly hate, it 
is the educational dogmas of those who cram the poor little brain 
with words calling themselves Facts and Elements of Knowledge — 
till there is not a nook left for a dream to hide in, or for a fancy 
to linger *' against a rainy day" — and till the poor little heart 
cannot move as it would wish, because of the clogged circulation. 
But, if children are old enough to take a pleasure in foppery (if not, 
'tis a positive tyranny, and my Mrs. Bell agrees with me, to dress 
them up like actors for the entertainment of vacant grown people !) 
they are old enough to comprehend — without dying of the shock — 
the pain and the shame of Rags ! They are one foot out of Faery 
Laud, already, and one foot in Vanity Fair. And Mr. Titmarsh 
could tell Her Majesty — what profits are to be expected by 
Parents who fit up booths for their offspring in that excellent place ! 

In truth, I suspect — ^with regard to the children of the Victorian 
lera — that we are too much given to indulge our own taste for 
the Pretty, at the expense of the health of those we bring into 
the world. Look into your Hyde Park, Sir ! Look into your 



542 THE FEINCE AND THE FHILIBE6. 

Kensington Gardttis ! Are those Children there ? Nay — rsdktr 
Fashions for the Month in miniatare : — some in black yelvet, belted 
round with scarfs long and strcmg enough to strangle one's entire 
offspring withal — some in scarlet feathers, which i^ wind cat^es, 
and turkey-cocks fly at; and which make an end of all hopes of 
creeping amongst underwood, rery nearly as definite as steel traps 
and spring guns. Here go mincing, smsdl ladies, with mizii^, reti- 
cules, and parasols : there a trippmg, small (no, those ean^t heBoys!) 
in cockades and varnished boots ; and ^^ buttons enmi^ to turn a 
mill " — ^as the Pago whom grief and anger threw into Maktpro- 
priety phrased it. Think ymi those children ererget a good game 
of Play ? Yes : with gilt India rubber balls ! — awd wiien ikej 
go to Polka parties !— <and they are walked genteelly round wild 
beast shows. Bat a roll upon the grass is with such a fiat impossi- 
bility—a scramble up a tree, forbidden by considera1i(»ts more im- 
peratiye than any Park-Beadle's staff of office ! I would net be 
understood as recommendiitg Dirt Pies, by way of a pursidt or a plea- 
sure for the infant mind : — neyertheless the slightest more elegant 
geological pursuit, sudh as Mareet might prescribe, er Mai^ham 
accredit, or Mangnall make the Eoibject of six questions, is eut 
oS, by the costume in yogue. Grodmothers and Grod£aid>iers ! 
Pomps ! "0 Vanities. How the young idea is to " shoot " 
arrows or "hurl the*"flyiBg Ball," as Gray sings — 'from. a pwr of 
satin sleeves, which fray- every time the arm is lifted up — 4M;ffles 
my comprehension' : unless it be that the Babes of Babylon ore 
equipped on the principle of Madame Yestris — ^who (according to 
traditions curr^it in Shoemaker's Hall) used to have— ^and for 
aught I know, has now, a fresh pair of boots dxaped and sown 
upon her two feet every morning that she was to " take her waUss 
abroad," and cry with Br. Watts his good child, 

" How many poor I see ! " 

Well : if the scions of Park-lane .and Beigravia ; of Berkeley 
Square and Hamilton Place, do grow up into spendthrifts — ^if 
Tailors poke their long bills into their bedchambers, and* milliners 
hunt them worse than the wicked woman of Tunbridge Wells 
hunted Miss Bumey's " Camilla " to get her money for ihsct leno 
suit — who is to blame ? The Times. Perhaps not. The 
Stars — New Planets inclusive? — rEcho answers "iVb." The 

Parents? Why truly B*it then, in the 

case of "the denizens of the above polite localities" of London 



THE P&INCE AND THE PHILIBEG. 543 

(so the Post puts it) 'tb the Parents who pay the Bills, and 
. not Queen Street, Soho — nor King^s Cross : — nor Duke's Place, 
Wapping. "Whereas, if we come by a Royal Prodigal — alas— 
a-day ! every one Icnows what nmst happen ; and it is perhaps 
as civil not to stir up old .names and old shames on our Prince 3 
Birthday ! 

Don't misimderstand me. I am not for one instant hinting that a 
case of extravagant example, direct or indirect^ is exhibited to our 
tiny Mightiness, whose motto is *' leh.Diefi I " — Long live Her 
Majesty ! A young Lady full of life— full of gaiety — ^fond of 
Opera-going — fond of boating — fond of Powder Balls at home — and 
as much travelling abroad as Great Seal and Great Councillor can 
possibly accredit ! — who yet, has never thoughtlessly gone 
beyond her (diamond) pin-money, and called upon the Populace to 
pay for her pleasures. — Long Ufe to her ! And Icmg live, also, 
H. M.'s Consort ; as a quiet, gentle, economical young gentleman, 
with liberal volitions, and elegant tastes, the strength whereof no 
Chemist has commissioned us to test, so ''we '11 leave them ! " — 
I believe, in sober earnest, that our Royal personages have a con- 
scientious conviction of the Responsibilities of Royalty : and, when 
such is the case, a five-pound note, more or less, is of little matter 
—still less, a smile ; especially now, when Boz, by the perpetual 
drawing of Mr. Carker's teeth, is doing his best to drive smiling 
out of fashion I . And this belief it was, which set me a thinking 
when I read about our Prince's Birthday : — since, " why," asked 
I of myself (and my wife, a famous manager of little folks, could 
give me no answer) ''if one is sober for one's selves, should 
one be frivolous over one's Children ? " And when we read of 
Banks breaking, and Factories shutting their doors — of public works 
being suspended — of Irish Landlords stalked and shot down like 
so many head of wild deer, by an infuriated and wicked set of 
famishing savages (what has made them all these things, not being 
here ths^ question) — when every day's newspaper comes up to 
the breakfast-taUe reeking with scmie new details of crime, or 
squalid with the statistics of misery — when Pestilence is said to be 
striding towards us — when a.g«eat and free people are going to 
butcher one another, by every approved receipt, in defence of 
Religious toleration^ — ^how oan we choose but wonder if the teaching 
of our Child has y«t begun ? Hard Condilion of Royalty, that 
Reality should begin from its birth-hour ! But so it must be. 
Th^e is no youth under ii Grown, now-«*days : — nor is there to be 



544 THE PRINCE AND THE PHILIBEG. 

any. The dear French Princess, who was* for good-naturedlj 
solacing starving Paris with pie-crusts, when the stock of bread 
ran low, is a figure, who would be found, in this year of grace, as 
superfluous and out of place, as Madame du Barry herself. Nay, 
may we not say more so ? , . . when we see a ** Betsy Watson" 
aesthetically Dubarry^/^^df in sesthetical Bavaria, at this time 
being — ^with additions, alterations, and amendments, suitable to 
Louis the First of the Valhalla and the Alle-Heiligen Kapelle as 
distinguished from Louis the Fifteenth of the Fare aux Cerfs : — -' 
while the French Princes, and Princesses, are saving fortunes ; 
not theoretically throwing away their pie-crusts. 

I shall be told, I doubt not, by the Abigails in waiting on the 
Prime Minister of the Nm'sery, by the Countess who has the port- 
folio (or pincushion) of the Cradle department, that I am raising 
a storm in a slop-basin — making a fuss which is " truly incon- 
venient,*' and as much out of order in the neighbourhood of a 
Palace, as .illness was in Fanny Burney's day. ** Duty, if we 
were to die for it ! " is their motto. So, too, is it mine. 
But every day brings Truth more and more forward as a Duty 
— in Court, Council, Conclave, Camp, Chapel, or 'Change !— - 
Truth, clear of any design to demolish, overthrow, or revolutionise 
— to partition the earth anew, by spoiling its Emperors or 
Egyptians : but Truth convinced that Peace alone resides ia 
Progress — and Order in openness to improve ! And where* 
fore not my truth in Print, as well as yours, my Lady of the 
Wardrobe ? You print your blast of incense in adoration of the 
Kilted Babe, and the Palatial Cake. I print my Counter-blast of 
bracing air, in plea for somewhat plainer, more real, more practical, 
as fitted to these dark days ! I must speak of the poor, and the 
criminal ; of wars abroad, of the deaths of the mighty, of the 
st(irvation of those who deserve food — not in the tone of the 
German tutor, who dresses up a Saint Nicholas to frighten poor, 
innocent children into good conduct, or of the revengeful lliurse who 
threatens the sensitive culprit with a Ghost, which is to come out 
of China closet or clock-case to devour him, if he -does not kacp 
quiet — ^but as a gentle memento to one who is to rule us (late may 
it be first !) that the good spirits of Love, and Pity, and Kindliness, 
wait without, if he will open the gate and let them in. God forbid - 
that I should scare the Hope of England by letting loose upon him 
monsters, leprous people, or black-bearded Robbers,' or pale-faced 
Catholics, who would treat him as badly (to quote the Bigot *s 



THE GREETING ON THE THBE8H0LD. 545 

hideous rhyme) as the Jews treated the Catholic children of yore, 
could they get their hlood-thirsty Papistical nails into him ! — But 
when he is dressed up in the face of all England (poor thing !) like 
a small Scotchman — ^may not I, suhject though I he — oii-dress 
him, and 8»y, ** Please, your Highness, rememher your little 
countrymen, who have no oat-cake^ to eat on their Birthdays 1 " 
When the Yule Log is put upon the hearth, and the ghost-story 
hegins to go round, — ^that pleasure of Christmas well nigh ^ dear 
and as dreadful as Snap Dragon itself I — may not I come to the 
door ; not as a whining Pauper — ^not as a disgusting trader on 
writhen limhs and ugly sores — ^not as Captain Eock or Captain 
Starlight, or one of the Peterlbo rioters redivivus, whose name 
was so magical a hughear in Lancashire, during the yile days of 
the Cato- street Conspiracy — hut as a man, though suhject not 
servile ? May I not say, adapting the language of the wisest of 
men (after the fashion of others, who, when they quote ScripturCy 
adapt it to the |)romulgation of their own favourite ism) ** There is 
a time to think, as well as a time to laugh : if ye would not that, 
a time to weep shall also come ! " 



•THE GREETING ON THE THRESHOLD. 

Speedeth Time, the unrelenting, speedeth onward Time, the king, 
Severing the years asunder with the waving of his wing. 
Christmas standeth at our thresholds — brothers, through the murky air 
Let your hearts lean out and listen, — ^ye shall hear his voice declare — 

" I am Christmas :— read the records of the deeds that ye have done ; 
Read, O ihen, with stedfast vision, by the shining of Truth's sun. 
Turn the pages, turn them over, trace ye backward day by day : 
Ere I pass within your portals, I 've a greeting I must say. 

" Have ye walked the world meek-hearted — ^in your patience have ye 

worn 
Lowly thoughts for inner vesture, nought of pride, and nought of scorn ? 
Have ye walked the world love-missioned, impulse strong, and purpose 

high, 
Foremost aye to strive and struggle for the vexed humanity 1 

NO. XXXVI. — VOL. VI. N N 



546 W3R aA£ETIN0 ON THE TBBXSROUt. 

" Have ye chased od» cloud of error ? HaTe^ne sown one seed of good ? 
Hare ye done the work Grod gave ye, hooestly, as true t^^ should f ^ 
Have ye borne a cheerful aspects hoping on through toil and care ? 
Haye ye won a poor man's blessing^ or a poor man's broken prayer ? 

'^ Then — bum bright your hefkrth-fires ! flash th» mirth-Hght in. your 
eyes ! . 

All my olden gladness cheer yon, all my jests and jollities ! 
Loving fri^ads be gathered round yon — ^merry voice and visage gay — 
(hK>d befal you ! Qod be with yon !-«HSiich tne greeting I' would say. 

'^ But if ye have willed to follow other ways, Otten^ than these, 
All regardless of the wanilz^ of life's solemn verities ; — 
If the loves that ye have cherished, have been M{/^loves, fakie and cold-* 
Love of earth, and earthfs ambitions^ love of .greed and love of gold — 

" If your hearts have scorned to hearken^ in the hour of mastery^ 

To all pjleadings of good angels, pity, mercy^ charity — 

If ye 've walked ahke^ self-trusting, self-sustaining, unsubdued 

By God's love, shed warmly round yon, and your bond of brotherhood — 

" Then — still lonely, drear and lonely, be your hearth, and be your home ! 
As a ghost from out the chamel of the dead years, lo ! I come— 
Come with gloom and desolation, and a silence doubly drear. 
From the sound of pipe and viol, and sweet laughter heard anear. 

" Fate-like I unfold your portals, and I Md you judge aright 

Of the wisdom ye have worshipped^ by the veiling of its light ; — 

And I bid you turn, soul-chastened, from the doom and th^ despair. 

To the better paths forsaken, and the joy abiding there ; 

So, when next ye hear my greeting, blessed meanings it may bear:! '* 

Speedeth Time, the unrelenting, speedeth onward Time, the king, 
Severing the years asunder with the waving of his wing. 
Christmas stimdeth at our thresholds — ^brothers, throng the muxky air 
Let your hearts lean out and listen, and pive answer to him there* 

Camherwell, T» Westwoodw 



5^1 



WHAT IS TJHE CAUSE OF SURPBISE? 

Wiat cwmecHon has it with the Laws of Snggestion f ■ 

Bt Henrt MXyhbv, 



Before proceeding to iI^mre into the Cauae of Surprise,. ai]4 
the nature of. its. coniiection with the Laws.ofiSu^e8tion> it is 
necessary that we. should settle what those.laws ajre. 

Accordingly, we shall hegin by defining the hs^B of Snggestion 
to be simpjiy those unifonn relationa^by. which one thought or feel* 
uig. suggests or gives rise to that which inanauediatdy follows it. 

''That one thought/' sarys Dugsld Stewajrt, ''is often sug? 
gested to the mind by another^ and that the sight of an external 
object recalls former occurrenees, and reviyes former feelings, are 
facts which are perfectly familiar, even to .those who are the least 
disposed to speculate concerning the principles of their nature. 
In passing along a road which we hare formerly travelled in the 
compiany of a friend, the particulars of the conversation in which 
we were then engaged, are frequently suggested to us by the 
objects we meet with. In such a scene we recollect that a 
particular subject was stajrted, and in passing the different *heuses» 
and. plantations, and rivers, the arguments we were discussiD^^ 
when we last saw th^n recur spontaneously to the memory." 

" After time has in some degree reconciled us to the death of 
a iriend," adds the same author, "how wonderfully are we 
affected the £f st time we enter the house where he lived* Every- 
thing we see — ^the apartment where he studied — the chair upon 
which he sat — recall to us the happiness we have enjoyed together ; 
and we should feel it a sort of violation of that respect we owe to 
his memory to engage in any light or frivolous discourse when sudi 
objects are before us." 

Now, what are the imiform relations by which such thoughts 
and feelings are suggested to the mind ? ' 

" In the first place then/' says Dr. Abercrombie, in his book on 
the. Intellectual Powers^ " there is a remarkable tendency in the 
mental constitution, by which two or more facts or conceptions 
which have been contemplated together or in immediate succession, 

nn2 



548 WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SURPRISE? 

become so connected in the mind, that one of them at a future 
time recalls the others, or introduces a train of thoughts, which 
without any mental effort follow each other in the order in which 
they were originally associated. This is called the Association of 
Ideas, and yarious phenomena of a yery interesting kind are con- 
nected with it, 

** But besides this tendency/' continues the Doctor, "by which 
thoughts formerly associated are brought into the mind in a par- 
ticular order, there is another species of association into which 
the mind passes spontaneously by a i^uggestion fcbm any subject 
which happens to be present to it. The thoughl or fact which 
is thus present suggests another which has some kind of affinity 
to it ; this suggests a third, and so on to the formation of a train 
Or series which may be continued to a great length. A remark- 
able circumstance likewise is, that such a train may go on with 
yery little consciousness or attention to it ; so that the particulars 
of the series are scarcely remembered, or are traced only by an 
effort. This singular fact eyery one must haye experienced in 
that state of mind which is called a reyerie. It goes on for some 
time without effort and with little attention ; at length the atten- 
tion is roused and directed to a particular thought, which is in the 
mind without the person being able at first to recollect what led 
him to think of the subject.'* 

The following example from Hobbes has been frequently referred 
to. ** In a company in which the conyersation turned on the Ciyil 
War, what could be conceiyed more impertinent than for a person 
to ask abruptly what was the yalue of the Roman denarius ? On 
a little reflection, howeyer,'* says the author of the Treatise on 
Human Nature, ** I was easily able to trace the train of thought 
which suggested the question ; for the original subject of dis- 
course naturally introduced the history of the king, and of the 
treachery of those who surrendered his person to his enemies ; 
this again introduced the treachery of Judas Iscariot, and the sum 
of money which he receiyed for his reward. And all this train 
of ideas passed through the mind of the speaker in a twinkling, in 
consequence of the yelocity of thought," Insomuch that it is by 
no means improbable, as has been justly obseryed, " if the speaker 
had been interrogated about the connexion of ideas which led him 
aside from the original topic of discourse, he would haye found 
himself at first at a loss for an answer." 

The principles of association, or — according to the more accurate 



WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SURPRISE? 54$ 

phraseology — ^tho Laws of Suggestion, haye been minutely studied 
by Dr. Brown, who has giyen a very full and particular account of 
thein. He divides the laws by which one thought or perception 
suggests, another thought to the mind, in the first place, into 
those of $imple Avd relative svLggeBtion ; the former constituting 
the laws 6f conception — ^the latter the laws oi judgment. 

"The intellectual states of mind,*' he says, "to give a brief 
illustration of my division, I consider as all referable to two generic 
susceptibilities — those of simple and relative suggestion. 

" Our perception or conception of one object excites of itself, and 
without any hnown cause external to the mind, the conception of 
some other object — as when the mere sound of our friend's name 
suggests to us the conception of our friend himself — in which case 
the conception of our friend, which foUows the perception of the 
sound, involves no fading, of any common property with the sound 
which excites it. This is simple suggestion. 

"But,** he continues, "together with this capacity of simple 
suggestion, there is a suggestion of a very different sort, which 
in every case involves the consideration not of one phenomenon of 
mind but of two or more phenomena, and which constitutes the 
feeling of agreement — disagreement — or relation of some sort. I 
perceive, for example, a sheep and a horse at the same moment. 
The perception of the two animals is followed hy that different 
state of mind, which constitutes the feeling of their agreem>ent in 
certain respects, and of their disagreement in certain other respects. 
This is relative suggestion." 

He then s\ibdivides the laws of simple suggestion into those of 
primary and secondary, . The primary laws are the relations by 
which the perception or thought of one object excites in the mind 
the thought of some other object. The secondaxy laws refer 
merely to those circumstances which modify the influence of the 
primary, by inducing one thought rather than another in accord- 
ance with them. 

The Primabt Laws op Suggestiost. 

According to Dr. Brown, these are the contiguity in time or 
in place — the resemhlance — and the contrast of the objects of 
the. ideas suggested — that is, the thought or perception of a certain 
object may suggest to the mind the thought of some other object 
«rhich is 



550 



IfHAT IS THE OAirflS 0F SimPRISE ? 



2od. BlMILARtoit. 



Ist. Associated with it. The nght of a pietmre/for 

example, can recall to us the 
artist who p^ted it--the friend 
who presented it to us, or the 
person of whom we plirchased it 
— -4ihe room in which it formerij 
hung— the series of pictures of 
Whi^h it then formed a part — 
and so forth. 

Or it may suggest to our 
minds the person of the iodi- 
Tidual whose likeness it is— ^or 
the scene of which it is a repre- 
seatation (as the case may he)— - 
or the features or character- 
istics of some other object which 
it appears to us to he like-— or the 
works of some other painter 
whose style it seems to res^n- 
ble. 

^ Or dse it may bring to our 
minds the school of painting to 
'Which it is directly opposite— or 
some object which is just the 
Tcry reverse of ih»t delineated, 
cac, 6bc» 
But if the sight of a pictm^ mch/ suggest to us — ^in accordance 

with the primary laws — any one of 3» abore thoughts, why, 

inquires the Doctor, does it suggest ime of them rather than 

another?. 

The cireomstances which induce this peculiarity by giving eer- 

tain ideas a greater tendency than others to he suggested by tke 

primary laws, are what he calls ^ 

The Secondary Laws of Suggestiok. 

They are the duration — ^the liveliness — ^the frequency — the 
recency — and the pui^ of the original perceptions of the 
Meas suggested ; and the constitution — ^the temporary emotions — 
the bodily state^-^vd the habits of die inditidual to whom they 
are suggefirted. 

" The occasional suggestions," to quote the author's own words 



3rd. DiFFBREKT from it. 



WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SUBPKSE ? 



551 



.2nd. MOBE OR LESS LITELT. 



3rd. Of moke or lass'ma- 
QUEHT occiasssKxaE. 



4th. More <m lass bxoent. 



<Hi the subject, ^^that flow from the primary laws on which our 

trains of thought depend, ore various according as the original 

perceptions hare been 

1st. Of lohosr or ssoktsr ** Thus, " he says, " the 

COKTXNUANCE. longer we dwell upon objects 

the more fully do we rely on our 
renembraace of tiiem . ' ' 

**'We recollect for a whole 
life-time the great occasions of 
joy and sorrow." 

" We remember, after read- 
ing them three or four times 
oyer, the verses which we could 
not repeat when we had read 
ilsemoiilptmee." 

** We are «ble to repeat any 

. single Use of poetiy immediate^ 

after reading it, though we may 

have paid xio partieular attoation 

toit.'^ 

"The BQx^ we have heard 
bat from one person, oan seareely 
be heard again by us withoat 
«calliBg th.t iiersMi to <«r 
mcnoiy. 

** To the cheerful ahnest every 
object thejpereeive is eheerfid 
as themselves ; while to <ihe 
gloomy no sky is bright, no scene 
is fair." 

*<Thii8,.« person imder the 
influence of the emotion of ai^r 
grows peeoiih or tetchy, as it is 
csJled ; or, in other words, he is 
^tisposed to be diq»leased amd 
•angry with whatever occurs for 
some time afterwards.** 

'* 1 n^d not refer," says Dr. 
Brown, ** to the copious flow of 
follies which « little wine or a 
few grains of opimn maj extract. 



5th. More or £Bss fuse 
from the occasional and varying 
mixture of other feelings. 



6lh. They vary according to 

DIFFERBNOBS OF ORIGINAL C<»7- 
STTTUnON. 



7th. According to differ- 

EKCES OF TEMPORARY EMO- 
TIONS. 



8th. According to changes 

FR0DT7CED IN THE STATE OF 
THE BODY. 



552 WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF. S17APRISE 1 



frdm the proudest reatfoner. 
How different/' he adds, ** aze 
the trains of thought in health 
and in sickness, after a tem- 
perate meal and a luxurious 



excess." 



9th. According to oenebax* '< When men of different pro* 
TENBEVGIES PRODUCED BT FBIOR fesuons, or, in other words, of 
HABITS. different habits of thinking, oh* 

serve the same circumstances--* 
listen to the same story — ^their 
subsequent suggestions are far 
from being the same." 
This arrangement and division of the secondary laws of sugges- 
tion, however, appear to be faulty in many respects. 

In the first place, several of the circumstances enumerated as 
forming separate laws, are not dietinct classes, but seem to be 
necessarily involved in others previously mentioned. Thus, the 
FREQUENCY of the Original perception cannot but be tantamount 
in its suggestive influence to the duration of it ; for, when we 
have repeatedly renewed our perception of a certain object, it is 
evident that we must have attended to it for a greater length of 
time. Wlule, according to Dr. Brown's own showing, the 
purity of our perceptions is a necessary consequence of their 
LiVEiiiNESS ; for, he says, in explaining the phenomena of atten- 
tion,, that ** it may be regarded as a general law of our percep- 
tions, that when many such perceptions co-exist, each, individually, 
is less lively than if it existed dUme,** and <*that, when any one 
perception becomes more lively, the rest fade in proportion." 
The same noise, for exapotple, he adds, which is scarcely heard in 
the tumult of noon, is capable of affecting us powerfully, if it 
recur in the stillness of midnight ; while the thousand faint 
sounds .which are continuc^y murmunng around us throughout the 
day are instantly hushed by the sudden oceurrence of any loud 
noise— even as the stars are extinguished by the superior light of 
the. sun* So that it. follows directly form Dr. Brown's own 
principles, that the purity of a perception is a natural resuH of 
its liveliness, and viceversd. 

Hence the secondary laws, arising from the circumstances 
attendant upon the original perceptions of the ideas suggested-, 
may be reduced to the liveliness — the duration — and the recency 
of those perceptions. 



WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SURPRISE? 55'3 

> 

Kor are the laws which are made to proceed from the peculi- 
CEiities of the indiyidual to whom the ideas are suggested, less 
imperfect in this respect ; for it is evident that the modifying 
influence which the Doctor ascrihes to the bodily constitution 
must proceed from the same cause as that which he refers to 
changes produced in the state of the hody^ — the one being but the 
general and the other the particidar physical state of the indi- 
vidual. If the cheerful ideas which belong to a person of lively 
disposition be the result of his ordinary bodily constitution, surely 
the gloomy thoughts which may possess him during sickness, can 
but be the result of his bodily constitution for the time being. 

Hence, the secondary laws arising from the peculiarities of the 
individual to whom the ideas are suggested, are properly the 
bodily constitution (or state of the body), the temporary emotions 
(or state of the mind), and the habits (whether bodily or mental), 
of the individual in question. 

These, however, far from being secondary laws, seem to be 
even more primitive in their suggestive influence than those 
which Dr. Brown has denominated the primary • ** When the 
common topic of the weather,*' says Dr. Abercrombie, **is 
introduced in conversation, the agriculturist will naturally refer 
to its influence on vegetation — ^the physician to its effects on the 
health of the commimity — the man of pleasure may think only 
of its reference to the sports of the field — the philosopher may 
endeavour to seek for its cause in some preceding atmospheric 
phenomena — and another person of certain habits of observation 
may compare or contrast it with the weather of the same period 
in a preceding year. Thus, in five individuals the same topic may 
give rise to five trains of thought perfectly distinct from each 
other, yet each depending upon a very natural and obvious 
principle of suggestion." So, in giving an account of a journey 
through the same district, one individual may describe chiefly 
its agricultural produce— another its mineralogical characters — 
a third its picturesque' beauties — while a fourth may not be able to 
speak of anything except the state of the roads and the facilities 
for travelling. The same facts or objects, however, must have 
passed before the senses of all ; and yet the recurrence of the 
journey to their minds suggests, or rather, originates, a different 
train of thoughts in each — each of such trains of thought differing 
according to the peculiar temperaments or previous habits of 
thinking of each of the parties in question. So that it is evident 



554 



WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SURPRISE? 



that what Br. Brown styles the secondary laws, arising from the 
peculiarities of the indiyidoal to whom the ideas are suggested, 
are the origin and directors of the different trains of thought 
occurring in different persons ; whereas those whidi Dr. Brown 
'has designated the primary, are hut the links, as it were, hy 
which the several ideas in those trains are hound together. 

Consequently, it appears that the more correct and scientific 
^arrangement of the laws of Simple Suggestion would he as 
follows : — 



Of the iNDimTUAL towfa<8n 



The Primary Laws of Simple SuaoEsnOK, 

Or the circumstances originating different triJns of thoi^ht in 
different indiriduals. These 

The Bodily Co»stitutiok, - 
Including the temperament, the 
general disposition, and the par- 
ticular humour; or, indeed, any 
state of mind haTinga bodily 
* cause 

The Temporary Emotions, 
Including the affections, tastes,, 
and desires for the time heing, 
as well as the temper; and, in- 
deed, any state of mind aris- y ^' ***" — IZZa' 

ing from any other previous state ^® ^^^ ^^ suggested. 
of mdnd 

The Habits — Intellectual 

and Physical; 
The former, including the 
usual mode of thinking hy cer- 
tain relations, as well as upon 
certain subjects ; and the latter, 
the desire to repeat some 
customary act 

The Secondary Laws of Simple BuoaBSTiOK, 

Or the circumstances hy which eoc^ idea, in a train ofthotights, 
is related to, and so suggests or calls up that-whidh immediately 
succeeds it, are — 



WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SURPRISE? 555 

The Association in time cr^ 

in place \ r\ « , ., 

The Rbsemblancb i ^^ ™^ objects of the ideas 



and 
The Contrast 



su^ested. 



The Tertiary Laws op Simple Suggestion, 
Or the circumstances by which certain ideas acquire a greaier 
tendency than others to be suggested in accordance with the 
secondaiy laws. These are — 

The LiYBLiNESs 1 

Of THE ORIGINAL PERCEP- 
TIONS of the ideas suggested. 



The Duration 
The Eecengy 



Such, then, are the Laws of Simple Suggestion. Of the laws 
and phenomena of Relative Suggestion — ^the only (^her remaining 
form (according to Dr. Brown)— it would be idle here to speAk. 
Suffice it, the enumeration and arrangement of the several pheno- 
mena in this ease, afpear to be as imperfect and objectionable as 
those in that ibove given. 

These distinctions, however, in ik> way concern us at present. 
Our purpose in this article is simply to give the reader a clear aotd 
distinct notion of the Laws of Simple Suggestion, and to mak« 
certain deducticms there&om. 

Let us therefore, before proceeding to those deductions, endea- 
vour to impress the character of those Laws upon the reader's 
mind — &*st, by recapitulating the distinct features and offices of 
the three classes into which we have divided and grouped them-— 
: and then by adducing some familiar illustration of their eperaticni. 

Well, then, we repeat, the primary lows are those circumstances 
which cause the same subject to suggest different trains of thought 
to different individuals ; * the secondary laws, the circumstances by 
which each thought in connexion with a certain subject suggests, 
or calls i:^, that which immediately succeeds it ; and the tertiary 
laws, the circumstances which give one thought a greater tendency 
than another to be suggested, or called up, in accordance with the 
secondary. Class I. is founded upon the different mental or phy- 
sical states of the mdwid'mls to whom the ideas are suggested ; 
Class II., upon the different relations among the objects of the 
ideas suggested ; and Class III., upon the different circumstances 
attendant upon t^e on^aisl^perce^pivms of those ideas. 



556 WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SURPRISE? 

Now, let us suppose^ as before, the common topic of tiie weather 
being introduced in conversation in some mixed assembly. The 
man of pleasure, who has a strong desire to enjoy a day's fisluDg, 
shooting, or hunting on the morrow, may, if the weather be wet, 
wonder if the rain will last ; or he may think how heayy the fields 
will be after it ; or he may remember how, when he went shooting 
last year under similar circumstances, the labour of crossing the 
ploughed land destroyed all the pleasure of the sport ; and so forth. 
The invalid may feel satisfied that such weather will do his cold 
or his rheumatism no good ;* or else he may begin to fancy that he 
has taken a chill through it — though he cannot exactly tell how — 
for he always keeps himself well wrapped up ; and this may make 
him determine to take two of his invaluable pills and a basin of warm 
gruel before going to bed that evening ; whereupon he will doubtless 
bring forward some extraordinary instance of those pills having 
saved his life ; and so on : while the meteorologist, who has culti- 
yated a habit of thinking on the subject of the weather — or, in other 
words, of thinking according to meteorological relations — ^may 
speculate as to the number of inches of rain likely to fall during 
the night : this may bring to his mind some extraordinary wet 
season, when the quantity of rain which fell was considerably 
beyond the mean average ; and he may then remember some 
remarkable phenomenon which accompanied it — a very violent 
thunder-storm, for instance— which again may lead him, perhaps, 
to think of Daniels' beautiful experiment, illustrative of the elec- 
tricity generated during the condensation of vapour or steam, <S&e. 

Now, in all these instances, it will be found — first, that the train 
of thought has arisen from some peculiar state of the body or mind 
(as in the cases of the invalid and man of pleasure), or else from 
some habit of thinking appertaining to the individual (as in the 
case of the meteorologist) — secondly, that each thought in the 
train had suggested, either from some association with it, or from 
some likeness or contrast to it, the thought which immediatelj 
followed it — and, thirdly, that the reason why" each of those 
thoughts occurred to the mind, rather than another equally con- 
nected with that which preceded it, was simply because the object 
had either originally made a more lively impression upon the 
individual, or el^ had been more recently or frequently attended to. 

" By means of the association of ideas,*' says Dugald Stewart, 
(or, more correctly speaking, by means of the^ principle of sug- 
gestion,) << a constant current of thoughts is made to pass tixrough 



WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF SURPRISE ? 557 

the mind while we are awake. Sometimes the cmrent is inter- 
rupted, and the thoughts diverted into a new channel, in con- 
sequence of the ideas suggested hj other men, or of the ohjects of 
perception with which we are surrounded." 

Now, it is with these interruptions and diversions of the regular 
course of our suggestions that we purpose dealing. Our ohject is 
to point out — ^for the first time we believe — that there are certain 
emotions which arise in the mind, invariably, on the stoppage or 
alteration of the natural current of our thoughts ; as well as to 
draw attention to what appears to us to be a very striking analogy 
between those emotions and certain sensations which are the result 
of well-known electrical phenomena. 

Let us, however, first endeavour to arrive at some definite idea 
fts to what we mean by the term emotion. 

Dr. Brown — whose division and . arrangement of the various 
mental phenomena seem to be by far the most complete, satis- 
factory, and philosophical system that has yet been propounded — 
defines an emotion to be ''a vivid feeling, arising immediately 
from some suggestion or from some other prior emotion." 

"All of our emotions," he says, "agree in this respect: they 
imply peculiar vividness of feeling, with this important circum- 
stance to distinguish them from the vivid pleasures and pains of 
sense, viz., that they do not arise immediately from the presence 
of external objects, but svbsequenUy to those primary feelings 
which we term sensations or perceptions." In another place, 
however, he observes that ^' it is difficult to state the exact mean- 
ing of the term emotion in any form of words — ^for the same reason 
as makes it difficult, or rather impossible, to explain what we mean 
by the terms thought, sweetness, or bitterness." 

But the difficulty which Dr. Brown felt in stating " the e;[act 
meaning of the term emotion, in any form of words," appears to 
us to have arisen, not from its being a. simple idea, but from the 
very fault for which he censured Dr. Reid — " thiit of not consider- 
ing the various phenomena * of the mind, merely as the mind 
affected in a certain manner, according to certain regular laws of 
succession." ** To have a clear view of the phenomena of the 
mind," he observes, " as mere affections, or states of it existing 
successively, and in a certain series which we are able, therefore, 
to predict, is, I conceive, to have made the most important acqui- 
sition which the intellectual inquirer can make." And yet, 
though he here as much as tells us that we can arrive at no real 



5$et^ ^^HAT IS THS CAUSS OF BURPBISE? 

practical knowledge of the mind^ ezc^t by diTiding and classi- 
fying the different menial phenomena according to their causes 
and effects ; and even though he was enabled — simply by pursuing 
this mode of distinction and. arrangement — ^to make almost all of 
his valuable discoyeries in mental seieilce» stiU, when he caiae to 
the consideration .of the emotions, he seemed to have forgotten the 
principles which had helped him so triumphantly throu^ the 
phenomena of sensation and suggestion, and to have subsided into 
tne old plan of classifying the different feelings by their apparent 
distinctions, rather than by. the mental states which invaxiably 
precede and fc^ow them. Consequently, he s^iarates. and 
groups all our various emotions into three kinds, viz., Ihicbdia.te, 
Betrospective, and Pbospejcxive, according as they involve no 
iMiion of time, or as they refer to some past or fiiUure object. 
But surely it gives us no more real practical knowledge of the 
feeling of Surprise, to tell us it involves no notion of time, than it 
does of the feeling of Anger, to tell us it always refers to aome 
object that is past, or of the feeling of Desire, that it always refers 
to some object in the future. 

Let us, however, take up the principle wbere Br. Brown aban- 
doned it, and endeavour to separate said group the emotions into 
different classes, according to their different caitsee and ejfecta. 
But ffrst, let us apply the rule to the definition. of an emolion 
itself, and see whether or not by. this means we shall experience 
the difficulty which the Doctor felt in distinguishing between an 
emotion. and a sensation, as well as in noting down that distinetion 
in a certain form of words. 

An emotion, then, we should define to be, a vivid feeling o£ pain 
or pleasure, arising immediately from some thought, or from some 
other prior emotion, and — ^mark the addition — ^whose tendency is 
to give rise to some muscular or mental action. Indeed, the very- 
etymolo^ of the term emotion so ^ioly shows us it involves an 
idea of motion, that it would be about as true to the principles of 
language to omit all mention of feding in our definition of sensa^ 
ti&n. Besides, it. is as much, as a law of the organisation of the 
mind that an emotion should have a tendency, to beget action, as 
it .is a law of the organisation of the body that a sensation hns a 
tendency to 'beget motion — ^muscular contraction being, sa Sir 
Charles Bell has shown us, by his discovery of the junction of the 
sensitive and motive nerves, only the reverberation, as it were, of 
feeliDg. Moreover, if we but consider the subject, we shall .find it 



WHAT. IS. THS- CA.VS£ OF SURPRISS ? 559 

impossible to imagine bodHj action oecnmng, except as tli6e(»ifl&* 
quence of* some previous sensatioa or excitation (to adopt the 
expression of Dr. Marshall Hall). Ther& must be a cause fw the. 
muscular movement ; and the odLj discoverablOj as well as- con* 
ceivable one to account ^r it is — the a^tication of a certain 
stimulus to the nerves or the mind, in the form either^ of soeske 
sensation or exciteooent, or else of some emotion.. 

Well, then, an. emotion is a vivid feeling of pain or pleasure^ 
having for its- caiise. sooae thought or some other prior emiotton* 
and for its ej^ect a tendency to induee some museular or mental 
action. It is distinguished from a sensation by its cause, viz., bj- 
its having aai internal, rather than .an external origin, and from a 
thougbtf^.by its effects viz^ by its natural disposition to beget 
action. 

Having now settled what we miean by. an emotion, and dis- 
tinguished it from other states of mind .by. its causes aaad.' effects, 
let us see whether we can separate and arrange the several 
varieties of emotions into different. classes, by the same means. 

Accordingly, viewing, our internal, feelings by this li^t, we 
shall find that. many, of our em0ti<»is are invariably preceded by. 
the perception, remembrancer or anticipation of- some good or evili 
in connection with a certain object, while the others take no cog- 
nisance of such good or evilj but always arise on the stoppage or 
altercttion of the natural' current of our thoughts. Thus, the. 
emotions of Anger and Gratitude, Joy and Sorrow, Desire and 
Fear, &c., will be seen, upon reflection, to have always a moral 
origin — OT, in other words, to be produced by the perception of. 
some past or future good or evil; whereas the emotions of Wonder, 
and Astonishment, Tedium and Diversion, &c., will be found to. 
have, invariably, an in*e/?uc^«a/ origin— or, in other words, to arise 
in the mind immediately upon the interruption or deflection of the 
regular course of our suggestions. Consequently, the first grand 
division of our Emotions, according to their causes, appears to be 
into Intellectual and Mobal — ^a moral, emotion being one that is 
always preceded by some perception of good or evil, and an intel-^ 
lectual emotion one that invariably follows the stoppage and altera'^ 
turn of the natural' current of our thoughts. 

Thus far all is clear and definite enough. We have distin- 
guished between the two kindd of emotions by their causes, and it 
only remains for us now to make the line of demarcation still 
stronger, by assigning to each class its particular effects. Here, 



560 WHAT IS THK CAUSE OF SUBPRISS ? 

however, we are restrained by want of space. For were we to 
saj that the effect of an intellectual emotion is to beget a cer- 
tain kind of mental action, called attention, whereas the, effect 
of a moral emotion is to beget another kind of mental action, called 
volition (or moral attention, as it were), we should have first tp 
show what we mean by mental action, and how it is distin- 
guished from a passive state of mind ; and after this, to explain 
the sense which we attach to each of the terms attention and 
volition, as well as to mark out the exact difference between those 
two states of mind — and to do all this would require far more space 
than we could devote to it, and a greater fixity of attention than, 
the popular reader would be likely to give to it. Moreover, to 
attempt to define an intellectual emotion at present by its causes 
and effects, that is, before we have shown what those causes and 
effects are, would be — since the reader could only take our asserr 
tions for granted — to try and twist a mere postulate into a defini- 
tion. Consequently, as the express object of this article is to 
consider the memtal states which precede and follow one of the 
most marked of the Intellectual Emotions, we will postpone our 
definition of the class for awhile, and proceed at once to the 
exposition of the causes and effects of the particular feeling called 

Surprise. 

The word Surprise is derived from the French Surpris, a substan- 
tive formed from the verb Surprendre, which is a term compounded 
of sur {super) over, and prendre {prehendere) to take, and, conse- 
quently, signifying literally, to overtake, Cotgrave explains the 
French Surprendre as meaning — ** to surprise, to take napping, 
tardie, unawares, in a trip, in the manner, in the deed doing ; also 
to prevent, to intercept, to overtake ; also to beguile, supplant, 
circumvent, overreach." While the substantive /S'e^/yriwse (the old 
French form of the modern Surpris) he describes as signifying — 
" a surprisall, or sudden taking ; an assaulting or coming upon' a 
man ere he is aware ; a tripping, taking tardie, finding in the 
manner ; also a tricke, fallacie, subtiltie, cavill, shift, evasion ; a 
deceitful quirke, or quidditie used by a cunning Pettifogger." 
Thus we see that the original meaning of the word was — to over- 
take ; after which the sense was extended to — ^to overreach, ori in 
other words, to overtake by some artifice ; and hence — ^to throw a 
mani off his guard by some tricke, and so to come upon him ere he 
is aware, or, as quaint Master Randle Cotgrave has it — "to take 
him napping, tardie, in a trip." 



WHAT IS THE CAUSE OP StlRPRISE ? 561 

Accordingly the etymology of the word teaches us that the 
term Surprise stands for that emotion which arises in tl\e mind 
immediately upon the occurrence of an event which is wholly dis- 
connected with our previous thoughts, and, consequently, for 
which we were totally unprepared. Here, then, are two ditiPiarent 
states of mind— >firsty the antecedent existence of a certain train of 
thoughts ; and, secondly, the subsequent interruption of those 
thoughts by the sudden introduction of some sensation wholly dis- 
connected with the subject of them. 

Imprimis of the first state of mind — ^the antecedent train of 
thoughts. This is either a state of deep attention or dreamy reverie. 
Some subject has engaged our minds, and we are busily occupied 
with it, or else some strange suggestion has fired a train of thought, 
and conception after conception runs through the brain in rapid suc- 
cession. In the one case we are said to be absorbed in attention ; 
in the other, to be lost in thought ; the meaning of which is, we 
are so wrapt up or enveloped, as it were, in our speculations, 
that we are no longer conscious of external things, and every 
object but those connected with the subject of our thoughts has 
faded from our perception, until we are as insensible to their pre- 
sence as if we wwe stupified with sleep. For ** when we are 
deeply engaged in conversation," says Dugald Stewart, "or 
occupied with any spectilation that is interesting to the mind, the 
Burroundiilg objects do not produce in us the perceptions they are 
fitted to excite. A clock, for exai^ciple, may strike in the same 
room with us without our being able, the next moment, to recollect 
whethei" we heard it or not.*' 

• Let us suppose a person sitting in his library, wrapt in some 
subtle and absorbing speculation. Presently the door opens, and 
some one enters the apartment unheard and unseen by him. The 
new comer observing that his thoughtful friend still keeps his eye 
intently fixed on the carpet, and that he remains wholly uncon- 
scious of any other party being in the room, steals softly round to 
his chair, and-^for the fun of the thing — intimates his presence 
by a slap on the back. Instantly the feeling of Surprise con- 
vulses the whole frame of the dreamer ; the reverie is abruptly 
brought to an end ; the chain of association is rudely snapt asun- 
der ; the long train of thought is suddenly checked and stopped ; 
and he fiaels in the violent concussion of his body as if he had been 
literally, instead of metaphorically, hurled from the clouds to th& 
««rth. 

NO. XXXVI. — TOL. VI. 



562 TVEAT 1$ THE OAVSS OF SUKFIU18E ? 

Sinee then the cause of the feelhig of Surprise appears to be Ae 
sudden occurrenee of some event for which we were totally unpre*, 
pared — or, in more philosophical language, the abrupt introduction . 
into the mind of some sensation which is wholly disconneoted/m^- 
our previous conceptions ; let us — ^n^w that we have amved at the- 
character of the cause— endeavour to aaeertain the ctrettmstaiieeB 
under which that, cause gives, a greater intenaitj to the feeiin^ aa. 
its effect. 

" Whatever presents itself in a soddto «id unexpected manner*" 
says Br^ Cogan« in his Treatise- on the Passions, " ha« in. most 
cases a much greater effect upon us than ^ubjeets of a very supmor* 
importance, for winch we had been gnidu^y prepared; The nnof^: 
sudden — tlmt is the greater the improbahility of its a]^>earing at . 
that inatantr^and thiei mare uMSEpecitd that is the greater the., 
distance the state of mind was from ezpectaaiey-^the m/^re pioleni • 
will be the first percussion." 

But' the tmeaspeciedness here spoken - of » and upon which the 
intenuty of the censequent feeling is made • to . depmd, is only ^i 
less CQBs^^ireliensive form:ofc/i«eom)a^«eM-*the quality .which we* 
have cUedras one of the essential reqwitea of^the.aateoedent stato* 
of mind« Eor it- is ^plain .that; what is wb^y dkoanneeied. with joiir 
previous eeoe^[>tiQBS-*^-«or, in other wards, ia .entirely removed ftom*. 
the n\iiBd-r^annot but be iin6«|MMi(ex/. by ue« "Whileit isequal^ 
plain, that wbut is wholly disconnected with our: previous cetteep<> 
tiona» must also eome suddenfy,xif(m. usr-«fieren>.aB ihsA wUch is^ 
sUghtly^conneeted* must' came ^foduatt^ upon ud?<*-gradationa being - 
simply the means of connecting abrupit^ extremes* So Ihatit:. 
appears ithe intensity of the SuifpisO> depends, among oAer things, 
upon the degreeof disconneetion — or.the'widdi o£ tba.cbasn aota.^ 
speak — ^between. the antecedent, train uof, thought* a«d;the^e«hfi0;*^ 
quent sensation. 

Another of the vivifying eimmmsla^cea'iriU be fiwaid to eonaiai' 
in the^int^Bsity: of the aMentien devoted to the said- anteoodeafc. 
train., of thought. Fjor since intense ttbben4iont ta ai^ siifak|eQlr. 
causes aU olil^ecta, but such as are-:Connectid'withrit, te fade £tont 
ovf pereoptionr-and race thia fading* or. temfAraiy. extinction' aft^ 
it were, of sueh extraneoua ob^eets,; cannot f fail to/ render tha 
aj^oaeh.of the aurprising event <(hi account of ite: verydiseoanec« 
tion fi^om .the°sul)}eot of our previQua.tfaonghts} whdify impereeptihlek 
to usr^and.sincey. owing to rthis-. vei^ i4ip<H^pttbUily,.we mnwt 
naturally be left in ignorance of the impending event, and sa he 



WHAT IS tB9B 4iJLV9;E Of BUBPBISB ? 

wholly nnpp^^ed for iheocwitence when it foreesitd^lf upon 
onr mindEh^wby, it foUofWBytfaat the greater the attention to the 
prenoas thoughtB, the grsater would be theahsenee of prepam- 
tion; uid the greater the abs^iee of preparation, the groaterthe 
Surprise. 

To exparess the law of ihese oonditiiimB, h6weY)3r, in a more con- 
4$ise formula, we ma^r iay, The intensity i>f the Surprise is in a direct 
ratio to the intensity of the antecedent attentim + the degree of 
the subsequent disconnection. 

Still there remainB one* otheripeculiarciroumstanee' appertaining 
to the cause of Surprise ; and we cannot pass to the considieration, 
of the effects of ike f^lhig, without first observii]^, that Sufprise 
always -requires an * eaiemal cause for its production, and it is 
solely on this account, and the eons&qttent impossibility of our ever 
surprising ourselves, that we nerer eicperienee the feeling in our 
dreams— ^s Macnish was the first to point out. The trains of 
thought which pass through our brains during sleep — incohe- 
rent and lawless as they may appear — stUl proceed according 
to the regular principles of Simple Suggestion, ecmception follow- 
ing conception — each conneoted by some remote relation or other, 
with that which preceded it, >and consequently incapable, from 
this very connection, of acting as a cause of Surprise. Indeed, it 
would be about as possible for us of our own agency to surprise our- 
^selres, as it would be fora'»tone projected -in space to alter its 
direction, or come to a stoppage without some external cause. 

It will be remembered, that, on defining Surprise. according to 
its cause, and statii^ it to be ''that emotion which arises in the 
mind immediately upon the occurrence of an event which is wholly 
disconnected with our previous thoughts, and for which we were 
consequently totally unprepared;*' we separated the mental phe- 
nomena involved in that definition into two different states of 
mind — into two different, though successive, intellectual events : 
first, the antecedent existence of a certain train of thoughts ; and 
secondly, the subsequent interruption of those thoughts, by the 
sudden introduction oi some ' sensation wholly disconnected with 
the subject of them. 

Consequently, having finished with the consideration of the 
relations required to exist between the antecedent train of 
thought and the object subsequei^ly interrupting them, we now 
proceed to the consideration of theoiroumstance of the^iateiruption 
itself. 

o2 



564 WHAT IS THB CAUSE OF .SURPRISE ? 

In the first place, then, Ib the emotion the immediate coiise> 
quence of this interruption or stoppage of the train of thought? 
or does some other mental state — ^some other intellectual event-^ 
intenrene hetween such interruption and the springing up of the 
feeling in the mind ? In other words, and in more definite ideas, 
is it necessary that the party surprised should first perceive the 
relation of the disconnection hetween the extraneous sensation and 
the antecedent train of thoughts, hefore he can experience the 
feeling ? — or does the feeling immediately follow the introduction of 
the extraneous sensation into the mind, without interrentiou of 
any such perception ? 

Now, that no such perception really does take place in the mind 
prior to the production of the emotion itself, is made evident hy the 
fact that we invanahly experience the feeling of Surprise hefore 
we have any knowledge of the ohject inducing it* *' Lord ! how 
you frightened me ! " is a frequent exclamation after any irra- 
tional surprise, while the laughter which invariahly ensues, when 
we discover how greatly disproportioned the emotion was to. the 
cause, shows clearly that the feeling preceded our perception of 
the nature of the ohject inducing it. And if it does so precede 
our perception of the nature of the ohject inducing it, of course 
the feeling. cannot depend upon our previous perception of the dis- 
connection existing hetween it and the suhject of our antecedent 
thoughts ; for if we do not even know at the time of the feeling 
what the ohject is which causes it, of course we cannot he said to 
have perceived previous to the feeling, whether that ohject is con- 
nected or disconnected with what we were hefore thinking of. 

" The mere suddenness of the transition," says Hazlitt, in the 
Introduction to his Lectures on the Comic Writers, *' the mere 
haulking of our expectations, and turning them ahruptly into 
another channel," or '* the disconnecting one idea from another," 
as he says, a page or two further on, '<or the jostling of one 
feeling against another, seems to give additional liveliness and 
gaiety to the animal spirito^. The discantintums in our sensa- 
tions," he adds, in another place, ''produces a correspondent jar 
and discord in our frame." 
. Hence, the emotion of Surprise appears to he merely a sudden 
mental check or arrestation — a violent restraint or ohstruction 
ahruptly offered to the progress of our thoughts — a sharp 
intellectual pull-up, as it were, inducing a feeling similar to that 
which arises on the sudden and unexpected stoppage of any